


there's your trouble

by extremegraphicviolins



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Allura and Keith are childhood friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gay Keith (Voltron), Horses, Keith is a cowboy, Lance is a reporter, Lance wears glasses in this fic because reasons. fight me, Lesbian Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Past Allura/Keith, Pidge and Plaxum are gfs, Swearing, some homophobia, the rodeo au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 13:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremegraphicviolins/pseuds/extremegraphicviolins
Summary: Keith Kogane runs a ranch with his father. As he’s gearing up to win big at the Garrison City Stampede, his patience for hiding who he is is coming to an end.Lance Álvarez is a reporter with big dreams and a not-unfounded reluctance toward relationships. But things are looking up, and he's letting go of the anxiety of the past so that he can move forward with his future.And in the middle of a blazing Garrison City summer, their lives collide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this oddly specific au came into being about a month and a half ago. i was watching the calgary stampede on tv with my family, and because my soul belongs to voltron at this point, the first thing that came to mind was "texan keith!!!! !!!!!!" (and yeah okay this fic isn't set in texas, but whatever. the main thing is that it inspired me to write cowboy keith.) so after several weeks of scribbling down headcanons and making convoluted mind maps and researching horses, i finally started writing. 
> 
> my goal is for this to be a longer fic (like around 50k? i hope? the longest thing i've ever written was only 20k so we'll see what happens lol) but i have no idea how long it's actually gonna end up or how long it'll take to finish. i just know that i'm really excited to write this au and share it with all of you ^-^
> 
> hope you enjoy!!!!
> 
> also, i'm not using the canon ages/age differences, so for reference:  
> hunk, keith, and lance are 25  
> allura is 26  
> pidge and plaxum are around 21 or 22  
> shiro is 28  
> coran and keith's dad are prolly somewhere in their 50s

Keith Kogane wakes up to three knocks at his bedroom door, followed by his father’s voice.

“Keith? Time to get up.”

“M’kay.” Keith’s voice is muffled by the pillow that’s smushed up against his face. He rolls out of bed, cursing when he trips over his own feet and lands on the floor with a thud.

It’s still mostly dark as Keith rifles through the unfolded clothes in his dresser drawers, looking for something to wear. He tugs on some socks, puts on a pair of jeans (which involves more ridiculous hopping around than Keith is willing to admit) and a t-shirt, before stumbling into the bathroom.

The rest of the house holds the same quietude and ebbing darkness as Keith’s bedroom. It’s almost like a whole other world exists at four in the morning, one that’s peaceful and chilly and definitely not appreciated by Keith while he’s still half-asleep.

Keith goes downstairs, his feet falling heavy on the steps. Robert Kogane is already in the kitchen when Keith arrives. He’s eating cereal, reading the newspaper, and looking more awake than any human being should before sunrise.

“Morning, Keith.”

“Morning,” Keith mumbles back to his dad. They fall back into silence as Keith gets a mug out of the cupboard and fills it with piping hot coffee. (His dad might be an incurable morning person, but he always makes the coffee, and that alone means he’s destined for sainthood in Keith’s books.) Keith opens the fridge, and—

“Are we out of soy milk?”

“Don’t ask me,” Robert says. “You’re the one that drinks that stuff.”

Keith scans the contents of the fridge one more time, just in case he missed it, then shuts the door. “I think I had it on my cereal yesterday,” he says, groaning. “My past self is an asshole.”

Robert chuckles, even more so at the face Keith makes when he takes a sip of black coffee. Keith sets the mug down on the counter, eyeing it distastefully, and sets about making toast.

“I’m still gonna drink it.”

“I know you are.” Robert only raises his eyebrows a little when Keith starts shoveling sugar into his coffee to make up for the lack of milk. “Don’t be too long, though. We’ve got lots to do today.”

“Yeah, I know.” Keith takes a tentative sip of what’s now more sugar than coffee. “There. _That’s_ better. At least now it doesn’t taste like punishment.”

“Your mother drank it that way, too,” Robert says. The crow’s feet around his eyes become more pronounced as a soft, fond smile crosses his face.

Keith stays quiet, waiting, hoping his dad will continue.

He does.

“I’d always ask her, ‘Don’t you want some coffee to go with your cup of sugar?’”

“Yeah?” Keith says. “And what’d she say to that?”

Robert laughs. “She’d tell me to bugger off.” Keith smiles at that. Every little story, every anecdote is another brushstroke on the picture that he’s painted of his mother over the years: spunky; quick to react; hotheaded but fiercely loyal, especially to her family. Full of love.

There’s a lull. Robert clears his throat. “I’ll take care of the cows today,” he says, getting out of his chair and putting his dishes in the dishwasher, “if you want to feed and water the horses.”

Keith nods. “Sure.”

“And you should probably practice for the Stampede,” Robert continues. “It’s in, what, a month and a half?”

“Yup. Six weeks.” Keith could hardly believe that he was going to be in the Garrison City Stampede again, or that it was coming up so soon. Sometimes he forgets about it momentarily, then remembers. Every time, it sends a pang of nervous energy and excitement through his body. “I’ll practice once I’m done all the other stuff.”

Robert nods. “Well, I’ll see you at the corral.”

Keith raises a hand to wave, munching on toast with the other hand, as his father leaves the kitchen. Moments later, the front door creaks open and slams closed.

Keith finishes his breakfast alone, downing the rest of the shitty coffee, because, let’s face it, he needs the caffeine. He cleans up his dishes, puts on his boots and a sweater, and steps outside, where the rising sun bathes everything in a calm, peach-coloured glow.

Keith lets his mind wander as he does his morning chores, thinking about the Stampede as he feeds the horses and lets them out into the pasture, making a grocery list in his head as he mucks out the stalls. When he’s done sweeping out the barn and getting water for the horses, the sun is nearing its peak in the sky. With nothing else to do until evening chores, Keith walks out to the field where the horses are.

He puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles, high and loud and piercing. After a few seconds, a black-and-white horse comes trotting through the field towards Keith, with three other horses trailing behind.

“Oreo!” Keith calls. The black-and-white horse perks up when Keith calls her name. “C’mere, girl.”

Oreo is a six-year-old Appaloosa that Keith got when he was twenty. The other three horses belong to Keith’s father, but Oreo is his.

Oreo is stubborn, and it took a long time for Keith to break her; way longer than it had for any horses he’d broken before. But Keith is stubborn, too, and at twenty years old, he was spending every free moment in the pasture, trying to break a horse he refused to give up on.

Now, Keith pets Oreo’s neck and nose, before leading her back to the stable to get her saddle. Putting on the saddle is quick work, movements that both Oreo and Keith have committed to muscle memory.

Keith pats Oreo’s flank, having finished putting on her saddle and reins. “Ready to go?”

Oreo, like Keith, is a creature of extremes. If trying to train her was like fighting an endless uphill battle, then riding her is like flying. She and Keith move in perfect synchronization, working in tandem like one is just an extension of the other. Keith urges her on, leaning forward into the motion, gently squeezing her sides with his thighs, and she moves faster, until she’s galloping and the only sensations that matter to Keith are the thunder of hooves and the wind in his hair.

They make a couple fast loops around the pasture, going back in towards the corral when Keith sees his dad waiting by the gate. In the pen that Robert’s standing beside is a wild horse that they’re borrowing from a neighbour.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” Keith swings a leg over Oreo’s back, hopping to the ground in one fluid motion. “Just let me put Oreo out to pasture.”

Robert nods. Keith comes back after a few minutes, and climbs the fence into the pen where the wild horse is, dropping into the saddle and getting into position.

Keith’s dad is holding a timer in one hand. His other hand is poised on the latch of the gate. “Five seconds.”

“‘Kay.” Keith steels himself.

Five seconds later, Robert opens the gate, stepping out of the way as the wild horse bolts into the corral, doing its best to buck Keith off its back.

Keith holds on with one hand, clenching his legs around the horse, feeling the shake and snap of the horse’s erratic movements down to his bones. These eight seconds always feel like an eternity, as Keith gets flung around like a ragdoll on the back of a wild horse, holding on for dear life.

At this point in his life, though, he craves the adrenaline more than he fears the fall. It’s a dangerous rush, and yeah, it’s caused Keith more dislocated shoulders and bruised bones than he’d care to count, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it.

“Time!” Robert calls. Keith hops off of the still-moving horse, landing on the ground a little harder than he’d like. He scrambles off to the side of the corral and hops the fence so that he’s no longer in the same enclosure as the wild horse.

For a few moments, Keith stands next to his father in companionable silence, leaning over the gate as they wait for the bucking horse to calm down.

“That was good,” Robert says.

“Thanks.” Keith is still breathless.

“You’ve got a good shot this year,” Robert continues. “A really good shot.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Keith turns from watching the wild horse to look at his father. “Can we practice again tomorrow?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Robert counters. “I saw you wince when you hit the ground.”

The smarting pain in Keith’s hip is starting to fade, but it’s definitely still there. “I’m fine. It was just a little… jarring, is all.”

“Well, you should probably take it easy for a couple days anyway. Can’t win the Stampede if you’re broken.”

Keith nods. “Yeah, I know. It just feels like I’m wasting time if I’m not doing anything to prepare for it.”

“You’re gonna have to get over that,” Robert says. “‘Cause we’re doing things sensible this year. Too much, too fast is the whole reason you couldn’t compete last year. Better to be cautious.”

Keith looks back at the horse, which has slowed down to a trot. “Are we taking this guy back to Margaret today?”

“Yeah,” Robert says. “Can you help me put him in the trailer?”

“Sure.”

Robert leaves, and comes back in his pickup truck, with the horse trailer attached to it. Getting the unbroken horse into the trailer goes a lot more smoothly than Keith expected, and between the two of them, it’s quick work.

“While I’m at Margaret’s, would you mind going into town to pick up some groceries?” Robert asks as he’s seated in the truck, the horse secure in the trailer.

“What do we need?”

Robert shrugs. “I don’t know. Fruit? Maybe a couple steaks for supper? Your soy milk.”

“Alright,” Keith says. “I’ll just go check and see what’s in the fridge.”

“You do that. See you in a bit, Keith.” Robert rumbles away, trailer in tow, rolling up the driver’s side window as he goes.

Keith waves, then treks back to the farmhouse once his father’s truck is out of sight. He finds an old envelope in the kitchen, and starts scrawling some semblance of a grocery list on the back of it, standing in front of the open fridge and making note of what they need.

About ten minutes later, Keith locks up the house and climbs into his own red pickup truck, not bothering to change out of his grubby jeans. The truck rumbles to life underneath him, and he pulls onto the gravel road that leads towards the city, merging onto the highway a few minutes later.

The grocery store isn’t as busy as Keith thought it would be. He parks in the back corner of the lot, leaving his sweater in the truck. It’s warmed up a lot more since this morning; summer is on its way, and Keith can feel it.

He gets a basket when he walks through the sliding automatic doors. Keith looks at the list intermittently. He picks out some peaches and apples, and some steak, as Robert had suggested earlier, before moving on to the chilly dairy aisle.

Keith scans the shelves as he walks by, zeroing in on the single remaining carton of soy milk. He’s only half paying attention when he reaches for it, and he jolts back in surprise when his fingers brush against someone else’s warm hand instead of the cool, angular milk carton.

He looks up, and across from him is a beanpole of a man with cropped brown hair, his blue eyes wide and startled behind black, thick-framed glasses. He’s using his shoulder to keep his cell phone pressed to his ear, but he’s gone silent. Keith can hear a faint buzzing coming from the phone. The person on the other end must still be talking.

“I’ll call you back,” the man says into the phone. He ends the call with his free hand, slipping the phone into the pocket of his blazer. His other hand stays on the carton of milk. Or rather, it stays underneath Keith’s.

_Shit._ The fact that Keith was kind of holding hands with this stranger didn’t stop being a thing. Keith pulls his hand away, mumbling something along the lines of _sorry,_ and starts walking away, his face on fire, resigning himself to stopping somewhere else to buy soy milk.

But as Keith’s luck would have it, things are never that easy.

“Hey!”

On reflex, Keith whirls around. The guy — _Soy Milk Man,_ Keith thinks — is still standing next to the big, open refrigerator unit, with the carton of soy milk in his hand.

“I, uh.” The guy seems to realize that he’s shouting in a grocery store. He gets a little quieter. “I think you had this first. And I don’t really need it, so…” He holds the carton out to Keith like a peace offering, but Keith shakes his head.

“No, I think you actually had it first,” Keith says, getting ready to walk away for the second time in two minutes. “I can get milk somewhere else. It’s not a big deal.”

The guy seems to disagree about that last part, though, because he keeps not-quite-arguing with Keith. “Yeah, but the thing is, I’m not even allergic to regular milk, y’know? I just like the taste of this stuff. And I’d feel like a dick if I took this when I don’t even need it that bad. And it’s the last one, too. Jesus Christ.” Soy Milk Man takes a deep breath and then sighs. “You know what? I’m just gonna leave this here.” He sets the carton back on the shelf and starts pushing his cart away before Keith can protest any further.

As he’s walking away, Soy Milk Man looks over his shoulder and winks. He _actually fucking winks._ “Enjoy the milk, dude.”

And then, as if this wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen to Keith in a grocery store since he was seven and got himself stuck under a shelf of cereal, Soy Milk Man is gone.

Keith stands there for a moment, still processing everything that just happened.

He doesn’t stand there too long, though, and walks back over to the cooler, grabbing the carton and quickly putting it in his basket, then hurries to the express till.

Just in case, before Soy Milk Man changes his mind.

* * *

_Finally,_ Lance Álvarez thinks as he reaches the top of the stairs. He walks the few steps to the door of his apartment, his arms laden with bags of groceries. Carrying all those bags up three flights of stairs was hell, but making two trips is for losers. Lance shifts a few bags so that they’re balancing halfway on his hip, and unlocks the door.

“Hunk, I’m home!” Lance sets down the bags with a loud thud. When no immediate reply comes, Lance pokes his head around the corner. Hunk is on the couch, curled into a really weird position — that _can’t_ be comfortable — and completely absorbed in a thick engineering textbook.

“Hunk?”

Hunk looks up for a brief second. “Hey,” he says absently, before returning to the book, scanning the page he’s on with an expression that Lance knows all too well.

“Have you taken a break since you got up this morning?” Lance is careful to keep his tone free of judgment, and wonders for a split second if the Master’s degree is really worth the stress it’s causing Hunk.

Hunk looks up, rubbing his eyes. “Kinda? I went to the bathroom earlier, and I had some cereal a few hours ago.” He sighs. “It’s just that I’ve got a test tomorrow, and I’m really feelin’ the pressure, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Lance says gently. “Any chance I could convince you to take a break? I know how important this is to you, but, like, you're important too.”

Hunk thinks it over, then gets up, stretching his arms overhead. “Can’t ace the test if I die of exhaustion, right?”

“Right,” Lance says. “And you’re totally gonna ace it, buddy.” He walks back to the door, where he’d dumped the groceries a few minutes earlier. “Now c’mon. Tell me about your day. Oh, and before I forget, how do burritos sound for dinner? I'll cook.”

“You’re a saint,” Hunk sighs as he sits down on a barstool, watching Lance put away the groceries and get ready to make dinner. “And honestly, there’s not a lot to tell. I got up, had a nutritious breakfast of Pidge’s Froot Loops, then launched myself straight into engineering hell for…” He pauses, thinking. “For however many hours it was. I lost count.”

“Wow. You’re a trooper, man,” Lance says as he heats up the frying pan. “Grad school’s not for the faint of heart.”

Hunk laughs a little at that. “Yeah, no kidding. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea, again?”

“Because you’re an intellectual badass who’s probably gonna work for… freakin’ NASA or something one day.” Lance adds the onions and peppers to the frying pan. They sizzle and pop in the oil. He turns to look at Hunk. “You’re doing great, man. You’ve just gotta remember to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” Hunk says. “I will.”

For a few minutes, they fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sizzling of the frying pan.

The sound of a key turning in the lock breaks the silence. Pidge steps through the door, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, and kicks off her sneakers. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Hunk says. Pidge plops down on the stool next to him.

“How’s Plaxum?” Lance asks, stirring the contents of the pan.

At this, Pidge blushes. “She’s good. She’s talking about getting a place in this neighbourhood for the summer and the next school year.”

“She must be tired of living in residence with the hordes of first-years, huh?” Lance says.

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be nice for you guys to be closer to each other,” Hunk comments.

“Yeah,” Pidge says. “I _am_ looking forward to that.”

“Sometimes I think that true love doesn’t exist, but then I remember Pidge and Plaxum,” Lance says, scooping beans and rice from the frying pan onto three tortillas. “You guys are goals.”

“Life goals and wife goals,” Pidge says. “I mean, not technically wife goals yet, but… I love her so much.”

Lance sets a plate down in front of each of his friends, then sits down next to Hunk with a plate of his own.

“Fuck yeah, burritos,” Pidge says before diving into her food.

They’re interrupted by three text tones going off at once — a simple _ping_ , some very aggressive buzzing, and the chorus of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.”

Lance is the first to check his phone. Hunk and Pidge soon do the same, and they’re all greeted by a message from Allura in the group chat.

**Allura:** hey!!! so i’m thinking of having a get-together next friday at my house, like 7pm

**Lance:** will there be wine

**Hunk:** LANCE

**Allura:** yes

**Allura:** obviously

**Lance:** k im in

**Pidge:** who’s gonna be there

**Allura:** some friends from uni, my neighbour, my friend shiro, and you guys hopefully

**Allura:** oh, and pidge, tell plaxum that she is very much welcome to come if she’d like!

**Pidge:** cool cool will do

**Hunk:** Can I get back to you later, Allura? Things at uni are kinda crazy right now… :P

**Allura:** of course! take your time ^-^

**Lance:** welp i have a burrito in front of me thats rapidly cooling down… so ttyl allura ill see you at the party

**Allura:** bye!!

* * *

 A few days later, Keith is curled up on a bench on Allura’s porch. Allura sits next to him, her body angled in slightly. It’s mid-afternoon, and the heat of the day has set in, causing Keith’s glass of iced tea to sweat in his hands.

Finally, Allura sighs. “It’s too hot out. Want to go inside?”

“Fuck yes.” Keith peels himself off the bench and follows Allura into the living room of the farmhouse, and _this_ must be what heaven feels like — air conditioning.

They flop, spread out, onto separate ends of her white L-shaped couch. Keith wishes, not for the first time that day, that he’d worn shorts.

“So,” Allura says, once she’s regained the energy that the oppressive heat had sapped from her. “What are you doing next Friday night?”

“The usual.” Keith takes a sip of his iced tea. “Chores, then going to bed as early as humanly possible because my dad thinks we should be up at four A.M. to do morning chores.”

Allura hums. “Coran and I are more six-in-the-morning people.”

“I know, and I resent you for it,” Keith says. “Why? Did you have something planned?”

“Just a little get-together. Nothing too wild,” Allura replies. Her mouth curves upward into a mischievous smile. “Besides, when was the last time you hung out with someone who wasn’t me or your father or a horse?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I spent some quality time with a cow named Kaltenecker the other day,” Keith says, laughing. “But, yeah, I’ll see if I can come.”

“Wonderful,” Allura says. “I can’t wait to introduce you to some of my other friends.”

“Yay,” Keith deadpans. “New people.”

“They’re really nice,” Allura says. “I think you’ll like them.”

"Probably. You have excellent taste in friends." Keith sips his iced tea. “You ready for the Stampede this year?”

“Getting there,” Allura says. “As of today, my time’s down to 17.74 seconds.”

“Wow. That’s awesome, Allura.” Keith grins. “I’m so excited to see you compete this year. You’re gonna blow everybody away.”

“I hope so,” Allura says. “And I’m looking forward to seeing you, as well.” She smiles, lazily raising her glass. “Here’s hoping you don’t break anything this year.”

“That was one time.”

“One time at the Stampede, you mean. Let’s not forget all the other times you fell off a horse in the comfort of your own corral.”

“Whatever,” Keith says. “Scars are cool.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, but it’s an easy silence that comes with years of friendship.

Then, Keith remembers.

He bolts upright. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about this weird thing that happened at the store the other day!”

Allura raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _go on._

“So I was getting soy milk, right? Except there was only one left, and when I went to grab it, some guy was already holding it, so I was kind of holding hands with him via milk carton, and—”

“Was he cute?”

Keith pauses. “Yeah, pretty cute, and — stop laughing, I’m not done yet!”

Technically, Allura isn’t laughing, but Keith knows her well enough to see when she’s working hard to bite back a smile. “Sorry,” she says. “Carry on.”

“And so then I panicked, because I was holding hands with this random guy, so I was gonna leave and buy milk somewhere else, but then he starts arguing over who gets the milk—”

“What a jackass,” Allura cuts in.

“Except he wasn’t, though!” Keith says. “‘Cause he kept insisting that I take the milk, and then we started trying to out-nice each other, and in the end, neither one of us would take it, so he just left it on the shelf and walked away. So yeah.” At this point, Allura has abandoned most of her efforts to not giggle. “That’s the story of Soy Milk Man, otherwise known as ‘How Keith Almost Died In A Grocery Store’.”

_“Soy Milk Man?”_ Allura wheezes out between giggles.

“It was almost like he knew I was lactose intolerant,” Keith says. Now he’s laughing, too, and his next words come out garbled with laughter. “It was like he fucking sensed it, or something.”

“So weird.”

“I _know!_ And he just started almost-shouting in the middle of the store,” Keith gasps between laughs. “Who _does_ that?”

It takes a few moments for Allura to catch her breath, but when she does, she says, “Soy Milk Man, that’s who,” sending both of them into a fresh fit of laughter.

* * *

 Keith and Allura go back a long time. They are neighbours, after all, even if their houses are separated by miles of pasture.

Nine years earlier, when Keith was sixteen and Allura was seventeen, they ended up in Allura’s treehouse, the one her parents had built for her before they passed away. Keith's father was inside, visiting with Allura’s uncle Coran. It was summer, and it was night, and it was warm. They were sitting there, side by side, backs pressed up against planks. The warm yellow glow of the flashlight bounced off the treehouse’s wooden walls, and there was something about the night that made it seem separate from everyday life, like reality was just a little bit altered.

It might have been that state of not-quite-dreaming that came with summer nights. It might have been the buzz from the small amount of alcohol they’d both had that evening. It might have been that he was a boy and she was a girl, and Keith knew what was supposed to happen next because the world had been feeding him this narrative since before he could walk. It might have been something else entirely.

Allura leaned in first.

And whatever was in the air that night made Keith not pull away.

The kiss wasn’t bad. It wasn’t anything, really. Keith didn't know what to do with his hands, so he left them pressed against the floor.

His first kiss lasted less than thirty seconds.

He went home shortly after, and fell asleep.

The next morning, he texted her.

**Keith:** Allura can we talk

**Keith:** Theres something I need to tell you

**Allura:** of course! what is it?

**Keith:** Can I come over

**Keith:** I really dont want to do this over text

**Keith:** Sorry

**Allura:** it’s ok, i understand. see you in 15?

**Keith:** Ok

**Keith:** Thanks

They sat in Allura’s bedroom, side by side, backs pressed up against the wall like they had been the night before. In the light of day, things felt heavy and real.

Keith looked at the floor and fidgeted with his fingers. “So I think I might be gay.”

“Okay.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry if I led you on.”

“Keith. Look at me.” He did, and Allura’s eyes were warm. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should be apologizing for kissing you.”

“It’s okay.” Keith shrugged, and tried for a smile. “It happens, right?”

“It does. I just hope I haven’t ruined our friendship.”

“You haven’t,” Keith said. “Trust me. You’re my best friend, and one half-drunk kiss isn’t gonna change that.” His eyes flickered back to the floor. “I understand if you need some space, though.”

“I can have space later,” Allura said. Then, “Does your dad know?”

Keith shook his head. “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Ah.”

“Please don’t tell him,” Keith whispered. “Or anybody. It’s not that… I’m not ashamed of who I am. I just don’t think I’m ready to be out yet.”

“It’s okay,” Allura said. “Tell people in your own time. Or not at all. Whatever you choose to do, I’ll be there for you.”

Keith looked at her again. He felt tired, and emotionally wrung out, but a smile found its way onto his lips as he held his pinky out to Allura, the way they did when they were little and the treehouse was simply a treehouse.

“Friends?”

Allura twined her pinky with his.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and thank you to the lovely TotallynotFanfics for beta reading!!!! 
> 
> comments..... comments give me life..... i would _love_ to hear what you think of this story so far :)
> 
> oh yeah and [this](https://www.specsavers.co.uk/sites/default/files/content_designer_images/Cherry-25665130.png) is what i imagine lance's glasses to look like
> 
> and [this](http://www.petguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/appaloosa-horse.jpg) majestic pony is how i imagine oreo
> 
> (also, i feel like i should mention that 'breaking a horse' just means training it so that it's safe to ride. there won't be any animal abuse in this story.)
> 
> edit 28/08/2017: i edited out a small bit that i just realised i didn't like. it only affects the fic a tiny bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm BACK and things are HAPPENING
> 
> (also, just so yall are aware, there is some alcohol in this chapter. it's not really a crazy party atmosphere, just a bunch of twentysomethings drinking wine and chatting, but here's a warning in case that kind of thing bothers you.)

When Lance bounds into the Garrison City News office at eight o’clock on Friday, he’s really feeling that espresso shot. He makes his way to his desk, smiling brightly at his co-workers. Throwing his messenger bag down on his wheelie chair (which he has definitely not ever raced around the office in), he goes to check in with his supervisor and get assigned a story for the day.

Freya James is a former journalist who took over Garrison City News a few years ago. She’s smart and resourceful, and Lance admires the hell out of her.

Lance knocks on the half-open door, peeking his head around the corner. “Morning, Freya.”

Freya looks up and smiles. “Good morning, Lance.”

Lance takes this as permission to come in. It’s his and Freya’s routine: knock on the door, say good morning, then get to work.

“I’ve got a bit of an exciting one for you today,” Freya says, reaching into a folder that sits on her desk and coming up with a piece of paper, which she hands to Lance. “There was a fire early this morning. Just after midnight, I think. You know that old brick building near the edge of town? The really old school that’s been condemned for ages?” Lance nods. “Well, it burnt to the ground last night. You’re covering the details and the aftermath.”

Lance nods again, skimming over the paper Freya gave him. “You give me all the fires,” he teases good-naturedly. “I feel so lucky.”

“I want to hear back from you at four o’clock,” Freya says, smiling.

“Will do,” Lance says. “See you at four.” He turns on his heel, a bounce in his step, and goes back to his computer to formulate a plan of action.

First, he pulls up his list of contacts. It’s a good one — especially good for this story, considering this isn’t the first fire Lance has reported on. Miles Berkeley, head of the city’s fire department, is a reliable source, so Lance gives him a call, hoping he’ll be able to give an interview for the story.

“Hey, Miles, it’s Lance Álvarez from Garrison City News. How are you?”

“Not too bad, Lance. And yourself?”

Lance smiles and leans back in his chair. “Can’t complain.”

“So what can I do for you?” Miles asks.

“You wouldn’t happen to have time for an interview today, would you?” Lance crosses his fingers.

“As long as it’s real quick,” Miles says. “You covering last night’s fire?”

“I am,” Lance says. “When and where do you want to meet?”

“Here at the firehouse,” Miles says. “I’m off from noon till twelve-thirty.”

“All right, so twelve o’clock, then,” Lance says. “Wonderful. Thanks, Miles. I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.” There’s a click when Miles hangs up.

Lance looks at his watch. It’s barely eight-thirty. Looks like he has some time to kill.

He stays at his desk a while longer, compiling a list of places to go and people to talk to for the story, writing it all down in the notebook that he carries with him everywhere.

By the time Lance has made a fairly solid plan for his story, it’s quarter after nine, so he packs up his camera and equipment, loads it into his car, and hits the road.

First, he stops near the abandoned school where the fire was. He takes out his camera and sets it up on his tripod. He’s far enough from the remains of the building that he won’t get in trouble, but close enough that he gets a few really good shots and some decent footage. Lance has been doing this long enough that he knows his way around a camera. Not as long as Freya, who had honed it down to an art before she traded reporting for management, but he’s getting there.

The rest of the morning passes in a similar way as Lance pieces together his story. Around eleven-thirty, he starts the drive across town to the firehouse, arriving there five minutes early, just as planned. Garrison City is a sprawling town, and summer traffic is beginning to rear its ugly head. Lance shuts off the car and smiles, priding himself on never being late to an interview.

When Lance walks through the doors of the firehouse, Miles is waiting for him beside the front desk.

“Lance! Long time, no see,” Miles says, holding out his hand.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lance says, firmly shaking Miles’ hand. “It’s been awhile since anything burnt down like this.”

“Yeah,” Miles says, laughing a little. “It has.”

“So how’ve you been?” Lance asks. “Been keeping busy?”

“You bet,” Miles replies. “And what about you?” He looks at Lance. “Where’s your partner?”

Lance freezes for a second. “Oh. Uh, we don’t… Elena and I aren’t working together anymore. She left the station almost a year ago.”

“I see.” Miles seems to sense the tension, because he clears his throat and pushes the conversation forward. “Well, where do you want to do this? I imagine the lighting’s better outside.”

“It is,” Lance says, grateful for the change of subject. “Would in front of the flowerbeds be okay?”

Miles nods. “You’re the expert here. Do what you think is best.”

Outside, Miles waits while Lance sets up his camera and runs a few tests to make sure that the lighting and sound are right. Lance conducts the interview, watching Miles talk about the details of the fire through his camera screen.

“And… done.” Lance turns off the camera, and Miles visibly relaxes. “Thanks again for doing this.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Miles says. “Glad I could help.”

“The story will probably air around six tonight,” Lance says. “Just in case you wanted to see yourself on the news.”

Miles laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glances at his watch. “I oughta head back to work.”

“Of course,” Lance says. “It was good to see you again.”

“Same to you, Lance,” Miles says over his shoulder as he heads back inside. “You take care.”

Miles disappears inside the firehouse, and Lance packs up his equipment. Having gotten ample photos and video footage, he goes back to the office to do his editing for the day. There’s a lot of footage, and he has to condense it into a two-minute-long clip that’ll play on the news tonight.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of editing. Lance takes a short break around two o’clock and eats leftover mac and cheese in the staff room, chatting with a couple of his co-workers who are on break as well.

Then Lance gets back to work, finishing his editing around quarter to four. Freya comes by to check on his story.

After she’s finished watching the clip, she says, “This is excellent work, Lance.” He glows with pride, knowing that Freya isn’t someone who’s easy to impress. “Would you ever consider reporting live?”

Lance’s eyes widen. “Yes!” he says, almost too quickly. “Absolutely.” Then, “Live, like at a sporting event?”

Freya nods. “Something like that. Technically I’m not supposed to tell anyone about this for another month, but there’s a big live event coming up that GCN is covering.” Lance holds his breath. “We need live reporters,” Freya continues. “If you continue to produce work of this quality, then I’d say you’d make a strong candidate for the job. That is, if you want it. Reporting on the spot isn’t for everyone.”

“No,” Lance squeaks, still not believing what he’s hearing. “I’d definitely be interested in that.”

“Excellent,” Freya says, getting up. “I’ll keep you posted, then. Good work today, Lance. See you on Monday.”

“Have a good weekend,” Lance replies. He packs up his things in a daze, and all but floats out of the office.

He sits in his car for a few minutes, letting things sink in. _Holy shit,_ he thinks. _Lance Álvarez, reporting live._

It’s finally happening.

* * *

“So you’re going to Allura’s tonight?” Robert asks through the door.

“Yeah,” Keith calls, stepping into a pair of black jeans. “If it’s okay, I mean. If you need me to stay behind and help, I can.” Keith pulls on a maroon t-shirt, then steps into the hallway where Robert is waiting.

Robert shakes his head. “I’ll be fine for one night. You should go have fun. If you need a ride home, call me, but don’t expect any sympathy if you’re hungover tomorrow morning.”

“Believe me, I won’t,” Keith says, smiling. He goes downstairs, and Robert follows, waiting by the door as Keith tugs on his boots. “I should be home around ten-thirty or eleven.”

Robert nods. “Be safe.”

“I will.” Keith pulls the door closed and walks over to his truck.

It isn’t dark out yet, but it will be by the time Keith goes home. Now, though, he rumbles down the gravel road in the dusky light, leaving a trail of stirred-up dust in his wake. The drive to Allura’s house is a short one, and Keith is there in under five minutes.

There are no other cars parked in Allura’s gravel driveway, which is a relief. Allura asked if he would come early to help set up, but they both know it’s so that Keith doesn’t have to plunge headfirst into a house full of mostly strangers.

Keith doesn’t bother knocking on Allura’s front door, just walks inside, kicks off his boots, and calls, “Allura?”

“Kitchen,” she calls back.

Allura’s at the counter cutting up fruits and vegetables and arranging them on a plate. She turns around and smiles at Keith. “Would you mind stirring the chili?” She gestures toward the stove with the knife she’s holding.

“Sure,” Keith says. He lifts the lid off of the metal pot, inhaling as he stirs its contents with a wooden spoon. “This smells amazing.”

Allura shrugs. “It’s the only thing I had ingredients for.” She smiles mischievously. “But if anyone asks, this definitely isn’t the product of needing to go to the grocery store really badly.”

Keith grins back. “Ah. Got it.”

“I think Hunk might be bringing something, too,” she continues, moving on to mix up a pitcher of punch. “So we should be okay food-wise.”

“So is this a potluck?”

“A half-assed potluck, I guess,” Allura says. “Why?”

“I should have brought something,” Keith says, a small amount of guilt creeping in.

But Allura shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. All you had to bring was yourself. And if it makes you feel better, I think Hunk just wanted an excuse to stress-bake.”

“Oh.” Keith relaxes. “Okay.”

“And that reminds me,” says Allura. “Could you get out the red wine? It’s in the—”

“Got it.” Keith’s standing on his tiptoes to reach the red wine that’s stored in the cabinet above the fridge.

“And the rosé—”

“Also got it.” Keith pulls a bottle of sparkling pink wine out of the refrigerator. “Is it bad that I know where you keep this stuff?”

Allura laughs. “Not _that_ bad. Only a little bad.”

“Oh, well, as long as it’s only a little bad.” Keith chuckles, setting wine glasses on the counter.

Allura finishes mixing the punch and sets it on the counter next to the glasses. Then she moves to the sofa and starts fluffing the pillows. Keith leans against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, and closes his eyes, willing himself to relax. It’s just a party, after all. Not a big deal.

He hears someone come thumping down the stairs, calling his name. It startles him, his eyes jolting open.

“Keith! How the devil are you?”

“I’m good, Coran,” he says, smiling. “How are you?”

“Just tickety-boo,” Coran replies before moving on to look for something. Even after living in North America for two decades, his Scottish accent is still noticeable. It has softened a little, though, and intermingled with the regional accent into something not-quite-American, not-quite-Scottish, and completely unique to Coran.

“Allura?” Coran calls.

“Hm?”

“Have you seen my boots?”

Allura points. “Over by the back door.”

“Right.” Coran strides over and picks up a pair of mud-caked rubber boots. “Thanks.”

“What’s the occasion?” Keith asks.

“The miracle of birth,” Coran says grandly, sweeping his free arm with a dramatic flourish. “One of the cows has been very stubborn this year, but I think tonight she’s finally going to have that baby!”

“Do you need a hand?” Allura asks. “I can still cancel this.” She’s biting her lip like she hopes the answer will be ‘no’, even though she would drop everything in a heartbeat if Coran needed help.

Coran shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he says, slipping on the muddy gumboots. “Wouldn’t want to cancel on your friends on such short notice.”

Allura relaxes considerably. “All right. But if there are complications, come get me.”

“You know I will.” Coran salutes. “It was nice seeing you again, Keith.”

Keith waves. “You too, Coran.”

Coran waves back, still looking over his shoulder when he opens the front door. He barely even notices when he almost runs into the person standing in the threshold.

“Oh, hello, Shiro,” he says offhandedly, breezing right past him and into the yard.

Keith turns to look at the door so fast that he almost gives himself whiplash. “Shiro’s here?”

Allura shrugs. “Uh… Surprise?”

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro says. “Long time, no se—”

Keith cuts him off with a hug. “I thought I wasn’t gonna see you for another month.”

“Yeah, me neither,” says Shiro. “But then I got called into town on some business, so… here I am.” Shiro takes off his shoes and walks over to Allura, embracing her. “Am I too early?”

“Not at all,” Allura says, smiling. “You’re right on time.”

“Holy shit,” says Keith, unable to keep the smile off his face. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.” He turns to Shiro, a million things he wants to say racing through his head, but overwhelming him at the same time, making his mind go blank. He runs a hand through his hair. “Holy shit,” he says again, for lack of better words.

Shiro laughs a little. “I know. How long has it been, anyway?”

“Since the stampede in Winston, I think,” Allura says.

“So a long time, then,” Shiro says. “God, that was a fun weekend.”

“Says the one who broke his arm getting flung off a bull.” Keith scoffs, but there’s a smile behind it. “You healed up okay?”

Shiro nods. “Basically good as new.” And it’s true — last time Keith saw him, Shiro’s right arm was in a cast. Now, though, it just looks like an arm; like it had never been bent at that impossible angle.

The three of them find their way to the couch. Allura offers Shiro a glass of wine, but he declines, saying he has to drive later.

“So what’ve you been up to, Keith?” Shiro asks.

“Nothing new,” Keith says. “Just the usual work around the farm and getting ready for the Stampede.”

“The one here in Garrison City?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods. “Nice. I’ll be there to cheer you on for sure.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t you competing too?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Not this year. After the accident, I think it’s best if I take a break from rodeo, at least for awhile.”

“Ah.” Keith nods. “That’s fair.”

“Do you know what days you’re competing?” Shiro asks.

“On Monday, I think,” Keith says, “and hopefully again on Sunday if I can get a spot in the top four. And Allura’s on Wednesday.”

“Well,” Shiro says, smiling, “I’ll be there.”

Just as he says that, the doorbell rings, and Allura gets up to answer it. Keith stays on the couch with Shiro. He doesn’t recognize the people that come in, but Allura introduces them as Shay and Rax. They take a seat on the couch, and Shiro, bless him, is able to start an easy conversation.

Before long, Allura’s living room and dining area are buzzing with the sounds of talking and laughter. Someone’s turned on some music, too; indie played at a moderate volume. It seems to fit well with Allura’s mix of friends. A lot of them, Keith picks up, live _in_ Garrison City, not on its outskirts like himself and Allura.

It’s a little unnerving for Keith, being in a room full of people and only knowing two of them, but Allura was right: he does like her friends. When he’s not talking with somebody, he’s listening and observing, just taking it all in.

Once the flow of people from the front door has slowed down, Allura takes a seat on the couch next to Keith and Shiro, slipping seamlessly into the conversation. Keith envies that about her — the natural ease around people that she’s had since they were children. She looks truly at home here, surrounded by her friends, completely engrossed in a story that Nyma is telling.

So when the doorbell rings again, before Allura can excuse herself, Keith says, “I’ll get it,” and walks over to the door.

He turns the doorknob, swings the door open, and is just about to invite them in when his train of thought derails completely.

Because standing in front of him is —

_“Soy Milk Man.”_

The guy looks at him, puzzled. “Uh, what?”

Shit.  

Thankfully, Allura shows up, rescuing Keith. “Lance!” she exclaims. “So glad you all could make it. Come in!”

She moves out of the doorway, and Keith follows her, still in shock. Soy Milk Man — or Lance, apparently — comes inside after hanging up his navy blue blazer on one of the hooks by the door. He’s followed by a large man clutching a rectangular tupperware dish, a woman with unruly ginger hair and round glasses, and a girl with two braids that segue from dark brown to a rich teal at the ends.

“Keith, this is Hunk, Pidge, Plaxum, and Lance.” She gestures in turn at each of the four people. Keith can feel Lance looking at him quizzically, and he can only hope that he didn’t say ‘Soy Milk Man’ too loudly.

Allura leads them all back to the living room, and Keith reclaims his spot on the couch beside Shiro. Lance sits down on Keith’s other side, talking with Allura and Hunk about university.

“How’s grad school treating you, Hunk?” Allura asks.

“Horribly,” he says, laughing, “but I love it. I’m just waiting for exams to be over at this point.”

“What are you going to school for?” Keith asks.

“A Master’s in aerospace engineering,” Hunk says. “I got bit by the space travel bug.”

Keith’s whistles under his breath. “Wow. You gonna be an astronaut, or…”

Hunk shakes his head. “No, I’m just gonna be designing the stuff the astronauts use. Space stations and shuttles and the like. Not as exciting, but still pretty necessary.”

“Hey.” Lance pokes Hunk in the shoulder lightly. “Don’t sell yourself short like that. What you do is insanely cool.”

“It is,” Keith agrees.

“What do you do?” Hunk asks politely.

“I run a ranch with my dad.”

“Oh, so like Allura,” Lance says. “What’s it like living in the country?”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t know. Quiet, I guess.” He’s still on edge, for some reason, his leg bouncing up and down no matter how much he tells himself to calm down. “What’s living in the city like?”

“It’s busy,” Hunk says.

“And our downstairs neighbours don’t know how to shut the hell up,” Lance adds. “But I like it. It’s where I was raised. It’s home, y’know?”

Keith nods, knowing the feeling of being tied to a place but in a good way, unable to imagine living anywhere else.

“Oh!” Hunk exclaims. “And I brought cookies.” He holds the tupperware container out in Allura’s direction. “Where do you want me to put them?”

“I’ve got all the food set up over there,” Allura says, gesturing at the counter. Hunk gets up and she follows suit. “Here, I’ll come with you, and we can get drinks.” She looks around at the people who have gathered on and around the white sectional couch. “Does anyone not want wine?”

Shiro puts his hand up, and so does Rax. Hunk shakes his head when Allura looks at him questioningly. Keith debates for a moment, but then decides, _what the hell._ One glass will be okay. Worst case scenario, he’ll call his dad for a ride.

Allura and Hunk come back, each carrying a bottle of wine and more glasses than should reasonably fit in their hands.

Keith opts for the bubbly rosé, because drinking should at least taste good, and red wine, much like plain coffee, is a punishment in itself. He takes a sip. It’s sweet, but not too sweet, and the combination of bubbles and alcohol sends a flash of warmth down his throat.

He peers at Lance, who’s still sitting beside him with his feet tucked up on the couch, listening intently to a story somebody’s telling and taking the occasional sip from his glass of red wine. The clear blue accents on his glasses bring out the blue of his eyes, and with his face animated and happy, Lance is more than ‘pretty cute, I guess’ — he’s energetic and utterly captivating, the kind of person that people gravitate to. The kind of person that people remember. Realistically, it’s not surprising that Lance doesn’t remember meeting Keith before, but for some reason, Keith is still surprised. And as ridiculous as it is, maybe a little hurt? It’s easy to forget a quiet man in grubby jeans who only speaks a few sentences to you before parting ways. It’s not easy to forget someone like Lance.

Keith isn’t great at parties — he doesn’t think he’s particularly funny or effervescent — but he’s having a decent night, listening to the wide array of stories from Allura’s even wider array of friends, and catching up with Shiro. He drinks the wine slowly, tastes it rather than feels it, and when he’s finished the glass, he doesn’t feel any real buzz, just a slight fogginess around the edges of his brain, a slight sluggishness to his movements.

Most of the others have loosened up more than Keith has allowed himself to. A rosy flush has spread over Pidge’s cheeks and nose, and she’s sprawled over the lap of the other girl who came to the party with her, Plaxum. At one point, Plaxum leans down and presses a kiss to Pidge’s nose, followed by another one on her mouth, only interrupted by Pidge’s giggling. Keith looks away, feeling like he’s intruded upon a private moment, then looks around the room. No one seems to care about the displays of affection between the two girls. A feeling of safety wells up in Keith’s chest. Allura’s house has always meant safety, but it’s nice to know that it still means that when he and Allura aren’t the only ones there.

Somehow, after several hours and several glasses of wine on Lance’s part, the space on the couch between Lance and Keith has grown smaller and smaller. The change in position was so gradual that Keith didn’t notice it as it was happening. But he definitely notices it now, now that Lance is pressed up against his side, his head leaned on Keith’s shoulder.

“You look familiar,” Lance murmurs, looking up at Keith through thick eyelashes. He’s slurring his words.

“Oh?” Keith sits stock-still, not daring to move, acutely aware of the warm body pressed up against him. _So maybe he does remember._

Lance furrows his brow, clearly concentrating very hard on coming up with an answer. “What’d you call me? Earlier, I mean. When you opened the door.”

“I didn’t call you anything.” It’s bending the truth a little, but only a little — it’s not like he shouted _Soy Milk Man_ right into Lance’s face. The words just… slipped out. Quietly. Keith is just hoping Lance is tipsy enough that he won’t remember Keith’s shocked expression upon opening the door.

“Bullshit,” Lance says, and there goes Keith’s only plan. “I know you said something. What was it?”

Keith kisses his dignity good-bye, takes a deep breath, and says, “Soy Milk Man.”

“Oh.” Lance’s expression remains neutral for a second as he thinks Keith’s answer over, then his eyes widen and his mouth forms a comically wide ‘O’. “Oh! It’s _you,”_ he whispers, his voice holding a special kind of awe reserved for those who are well on their way to drunk. “From the store. With the milk.”

Keith nods. “Yeah.”

“Was it good milk?”

Keith laughs, because Lance looks so sincere. “Yeah, it was pretty good, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Lance snuggles in closer to Keith, his head tucked in under Keith’s collarbone.

“Are you wearing space pants?” Lance asks, his voice dropping. “‘Cause I’m getting lost in your eyes.”

“What?” Keith lets out a nervous laugh.

Lance’s brow furrows. “No. Fuck. That’s not how it goes. I fucked it up.”

“Uh… Lance?” Keith nudges him, tries to put a little more space between them, but Lance ignores him, and stays put.

 _Okay. This is fine,_ Keith thinks. _Lance is probably going to fall asleep. Not the first time I’ve been used as a pillow by a drunk person—_

“Hey,” Lance says in a stage whisper that would be funny if Lance’s bedroom eyes weren’t so alarming. “Allura’s house has bedrooms.” His voice is breathy. Keith can feel it, can smell the afterthoughts of wine on his breath, and he’s pretty sure that Lance is failing badly enough at whispering that most of the room could hear what he’s saying if they bothered to listen.

“Yeah,” Keith says uncertainly. “What’s your point?”

“We could go to one of the bedrooms,” Lance says, putting his hand on Keith’s thigh. “And do things.”

Keith feels Lance’s lips brush his neck, and he jerks away. He shakes his head and gently pushes Lance off of him, standing up. “Nope. You’re drunk.”

Lance flops onto the space where Keith used to be and pouts. “But you’re handsome.”

“Doesn’t change that you’re drunk,” Keith says, ignoring the blush that creeps onto his face. “Lay on your side, okay? In case you throw up.”

Lance does, curling up into fetal position, and mumbles something that sounds like, _I haven’t puked since 2010._

Keith looks at Lance one last time as he walks away, and sees that Lance’s eyes have fluttered shut. Across the room, on the loveseat, Pidge has fallen asleep on Plaxum, who’s holding her close and absently playing with Pidge’s hair.

The party seems to be winding down, and it’s getting late, so Keith calls his dad.

“Hey. Can you come get me?”

“Sure,” Robert says. His voice sounds tinny over the phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

“‘Kay. Thanks.” The line cuts out when Robert hangs up.

Keith slides his phone back into his pocket, and sees Shiro over by the front door, getting ready to leave.

“I’ll see you at the Stampede, right?” Shiro asks as he’s bent over tying his shoes.

“Yeah.” Keith nods. “For sure.”

Shiro stands up straight, then pulls Keith in for a hug. “It was really good to see you, Keith.”

“I just can’t believe that Allura forgot to tell me you were coming,” Keith says, laughing a little.

“I didn’t forget,” Allura says, walking up to the porch where Keith and Shiro are standing, and crossing her arms. “It was a surprise.”

“Really?” Shiro asks. Allura hesitates for a second before nodding.

“Pfft. You totally forgot,” Keith says. “But that’s okay. It was a good accidental surprise.”

“It was,” Shiro says. “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime,” Allura says, and wraps him in a hug that lasts a few long seconds.

“I guess I’ll see you later, then?” Shiro asks when they break apart.

“You know it,” Allura says. “Drive safe.”

“Will do.”

Once Shiro has left the house and his black pickup truck has rumbled out of sight, Keith says to Allura, “I should probably get going too.”

“Have fun with four A.M. chores tomorrow,” she says with a wicked grin.

Keith laughs, nudging her slightly with his shoulder. “You’re evil.”

“And well-rested.”

Keith snort-laughs and kicks at the floor. “So I may have a sequel to that funny story I told you last week.”

“Oh?” Allura asks. “The thrilling chronicles of Soy Milk Man?”

Keith nods, preparing himself for Allura’s reaction to what he’s about to say next. “You’ll never guess who almost fell asleep on me and then propositioned me tonight.”

He looks over at the couch, and Allura follows his gaze.

 _“No,”_ she says when her eyes land on a sleeping Lance. “No bloody way.”

“Yes bloody way,” Keith shoots back. “And not so loud. You might wake him up.”

Allura just laughs and shakes her head. “Not a chance. Lance sleeps like the dead.” She turns back to Keith, eyes wide. “So Lance…”

“...Is Soy Milk Man, yep.” Keith finishes.

Allura is quiet for a second, then nods. “Yeah, I can see him doing that.” And then, “Wait, he _propositioned you?”_ Keith nods. “Oh god.” She shakes her head and starts laughing again, softly. “Oh, Lance.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, laughing a little too. “Small world, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“Thanks for tonight,” Keith says. “I had a really fun time.”

“I’m glad,” Allura says. “Are you driving home?”

“No. I still feel a little fuzzy,” he explains. “Don’t wanna risk anything. My dad should be here in a few minutes.”

“All right. I can wait here with you, if you want.”

Keith shakes his head. “You should get back to the party.”

“Not much of a party to get back to.” Allura’s not wrong — a handful of people have fallen asleep, and most others are getting ready to go home. At this point, ‘the party’ only really consists of Hunk, Shay, and Rax engaged in quiet conversation.

“True,” Keith muses. “Hey, do you have any paper? And a pen?”

“Yeah, in the kitchen,” Allura says. “You know where it’s at.”

Keith goes to the kitchen, finds a post-it note, and sets it on the counter. He stands over it, a black pen poised in his hand. Then, before he can lose his resolve, he scrawls his message on the square of paper and walks back to the porch. He slips the note into the pocket of the blue blazer that’s hanging on a hook. Allura watches him do it and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, and Keith is grateful.

Two bright yellow beams of light filter into the porch through the panes of glass in the front door.

“Looks like my dad’s here.” Keith slips on his boots.

Allura pulls Keith into a quick hug. “Text me when you get home safe?”

Keith nods. “Sure. See you Tuesday like usual?”

“Of course.” Allura smiles, and walks out onto the porch with Keith, closing the door behind her so that no mosquitoes can get into the house. “Tell your dad I said hi.”

“And let me know what Coran decided to name that calf,” Keith calls as he walks over to his dad’s truck.

Allura gives him a thumbs up and a smile. “Will do.”

Keith opens the passenger door and climbs into the truck, waving at Allura as his dad pulls away.

“You don’t look that drunk,” Robert comments once they’re on the gravel road that leads to their house.

“I didn’t drink a lot,” Keith says, staring straight ahead at the expanse of road in front of them that’s lit up by the high beams. “But I figured it’s better to be safe than to get in a wreck.” Robert nods. “Thanks for coming to get me,” Keith adds.

“‘Course,” Robert says. “How was your night?”

Keith thinks back on the events of the evening: catching up with Shiro, meeting Allura’s other friends (who were actually really awesome people), and of all things, seeing Soy Milk Man. _Seeing Lance,_ Keith corrects himself. _He has a name._

Oh, and not to mention that Lance drunkenly asked to sleep with him. Keith’s face flares up with a bright red blush, and he prays that it’s too dark for his father to notice.

Keith realizes that Robert is still waiting for an answer. “Oh. Uh, it was good,” he says quickly. “I had a good time. Allura says hi, by the way.”

“Well, hi to Allura,” says Robert, chuckling softly. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He thinks of the note he left in the pocket of the blazer, and something hopeful blossoms inside of him; something nervous and romantic and juvenile. “Me too.”

* * *

Lance wakes up the next morning with a headache thrumming at the forefront of his skull. Sunlight filters in through his bedroom windows as he groggily rolls over, taking a guess as to exactly how bad this hangover is going to be. He’s thirsty as hell, and the headache is definitely there, although he’s had worse. He sits up, but he does it too fast, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. Lance stays there, on the edge of his bed, until the little squiggly lines and black spots fade from his vision.

He plucks his glasses off his nightstand, puts them on, then stumbles into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror above the sink as he brushes his teeth, and the creature in the mirror looks back at him with sleepy eyes and hair sticking up every which way. Lance washes his face, and feeling a bit more human, steps out into the kitchen.

Hunk is already awake, eating yogurt with peaches and granola on top. “Good afternoon,” he says, smiling.

“‘S still morning.” Lance glances at the clock. Eleven A.M. is _definitely_ still morning. His stomach growls, and Lance realizes for the first time that morning how hungry he is. Yawning, he shuffles across the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of cereal that has no nutritional value whatsoever. He fills the biggest mug he owns to the brim with coffee, then sits down next to Hunk. “The breakfast of champions.”

“More like the breakfast of the hungover.”

“Whatever,” Lance mumbles through a mouthful of cereal. He swallows, then takes a big sip of coffee, feeling his headache start to fade. “What’re you up to today?”

Hunk shrugs. “Pretending I don’t have to go to class, until two o’clock, when I have to go to class. You?”

Lance stretches his arms overhead until something in his spine makes a satisfying _pop._ “Absolutely nothing.”

“Lucky.”

“Yeah.”

They fall into silence for a few minutes as they eat their breakfasts. When Lance hears a door creaking open, both he and Hunk look over to the hallway.

Pidge stumbles out, looking groggy but unfairly not-hungover, followed by Plaxum, whose hair is wavy from last night’s braids, wearing one of Pidge’s t-shirts.

“‘Sup,” Pidge says. Her voice is croaky with the remnants of sleep.

“Morning,” Hunk says. Lance just waves, still not awake enough to hold a decent conversation. But then again, neither is Pidge, so he supposes it doesn’t matter.

Pidge walks over to the cabinet where the cereal is kept, and rustles around in it for a minute or so, looking for something. Then, the crinkly sound of cellophane ceases, and Pidge emerges from the cupboard. “Lance?”

“Yes?” Lance says as innocently as possible. Beside him, Hunk stays silent.

“Why the fuck are you always eating my cereal?” She sets the empty box of Froot Loops down on the counter, exasperated. “Like, c’mon. You have your own cereal.”

Lance tries to defend himself. “Yeah, but it’s gross.”

Pidge shrugs. “You’re the one that picked it out.”

“Well, I didn’t _know_ it would be gross until I tried it!” Lance says. “The package made it sound good.”

“In what universe does raisin bran sound good?” Pidge is almost laughing. At this point, she looks more amused than annoyed. “Live with the consequences, my friend.” Pidge goes to rummage through the fridge to find something else to eat. “Oh, and you two owe me a new box of Froot Loops.”

“Wait, us _two?”_ Hunk asks.

“Busted,” Lance says in a sing-song voice.

Pidge laughs, and starts making breakfast for herself and Plaxum. “Totally. I see everything, Hunk.”

“Really?”

“No. You just can’t lie for shit.” She cracks a couple eggs into the frying pan. “Which isn’t a bad thing. It’s how I know you’re not a secret government operative.”

Pidge finishes making eggs and toast, and she and Plaxum eat on the couch, snuggled up together and talking in quiet voices.

Hunk finishes his yogurt, and goes over to wash his dishes in the sink. “Oh, and by the way, Allura said something last night about how you should check the pocket of your coat.”

“Oh?” Lance slurps down the last of his cereal. “How come?”

“I don’t know. She just said to look.”

“Well.” Lance gets up and quickly washes his dishes. “I guess I’ll go find out.”

He goes to his room, where his navy blue blazer is slung haphazardly over the back of his desk chair. The first pocket he checks is empty, but in the second one, his fingers brush over a piece of paper. He pulls it out.

It’s a note, written in messy all-caps on a light pink post-it.

 _LANCE_ —

_IN CASE YOU WANT TO HANG OUT SOBER SOMETIME._

— _KEITH._

It’s followed by ten digits — a phone number.

His stomach does a flip, and a million thoughts rush through his head all at once: _What the hell did I_ do _last night? Is this a booty call? An invitation on a date?_ He enters the number into his contacts, and types out a short message. He stares at it for a few solid minutes, tapping the screen when it dims and threatens to fall asleep, but eventually deletes it, holding his finger over the backspace button until it’s all gone.

He keeps the note, though; tucks it away in his sock drawer. He isn’t sure if this is something he’ll want to come back to or forget entirely. _That’s a problem for future Lance._

So he pushes down the fear and puts on a pair of joggers, and smooths down the cowlicks in his hair with a bit of water. Then he grabs his sketchbook and a pencil, flops on his stomach onto his unmade bed, and starts absentmindedly drawing, letting his mind wander as he thinks things over.

* * *

A few days later, on Wednesday, Lance is in his pajamas, curled up in a nest of blankets on his bed. The trash can on the other side of his bedroom is rapidly filling up with the tissues he’s thrown into it, and a steaming cup of tea infused with lemon and honey sits on his nightstand.

Freya was understanding when he called in sick to work earlier that morning. Of course, she didn’t want Lance to spread a nasty head cold around the office, but she also told him to get some rest. _“Your health comes first.”_ As far as bosses go, Freya’s a good one, and Lance is grateful.

So he’s taken the morning to relax, resolving to work on a piece he told Freya he’d do in the afternoon. The unexpected time off gives Lance time to mull things over, and around quarter to twelve, he’s as close to being done thinking as he’s gonna get. Or rather, he hasn’t been able to _stop_ thinking. About Keith, specifically. Even though he remembers most of that evening through the rose-tinted glasses that come with drinking a little too much wine, he has a clear memory of Keith: his laugh, his face, his slightly sandpapery voice.

And, yeah, it’s been awhile. Lance would be lying if he said he didn’t want to get laid. And Keith seems to be into it, since he left the note…

Lance takes a deep breath and gets his phone out of his pocket.

**New Message → Keith**

**Lance:** hey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so i hope you enjoyed that!!!! thanks for reading, and thank you to TotallynotFanfics for beta reading! you're a star ^-^
> 
> if you liked this chapter, comments would be very much appreciated. i'd love to hear what you thought!! 
> 
> until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everybody, and happy friday!!!! hope you're all doing well :3
> 
> so this fic has been getting kudos and comment lately, and ohh my gosh it warms my heart every time. every single time. thank you all so much for the positive feedback <3
> 
> in other news, next month i'm participating in nanowrimo for the first time ever! i'm super excited about it, but i've heard that nano is a crazy time, so for the month of november, i'll be taking a break from this fic. i may or may not finish chapter 4 before then; i'm not sure. but i will absolutely be coming back to this fic, and i have every intention to finish it.

The morning is still crisp and cool as Keith walks out to the barn. It’s easier to haul buckets of water out to the animals when the sun isn’t beating down relentlessly on his back. The chilliness won’t last for very long, though. It’s the beginning of June, and Keith finds himself ditching his jacket earlier every day. 

He waters the cows first, because there are more of them and it takes longer. The sun is fully up by the time he’s done, so he moves on to the horses, putting clean water in the trough, then letting them out to pasture. He pets Oreo while he’s there, and sneaks her a handful of oats, promising to come back later for a ride. 

Keith makes his way over to the garden, which sits on top of the only hill on the property. It’s not as big as it was when his mother used to plant it, but it’s still a decent size. Not that Keith knows the difference firsthand — he was only two and a half when the cancer won. He can still imagine the garden in all its glory, though, since the plot of dirt, rich again after years of neglect, is huge and only partially occupied by vegetables. 

Robert only ever plants the same few vegetables, because they’re hardy and require little work, just weeding and watering a few times a week. It’s Keith’s turn to tend the garden today, since his father is out mowing the hayfields and forming the hay into bales that the cows will eat come winter. 

Keith kneels in the soil, and starts weeding at the same place he always does — the far end by the tomatoes. It’s simple, repetitive work, and it gives him time to think. While his hands are busy plucking weeds from the soil, his brain is moving too. 

It’s been a few days since the party — it’s Wednesday now — and those strange, shy, hopeful butterflies have almost completely vacated Keith’s belly. He still hasn’t heard from Lance. Yesterday, he asked Allura if Lance had just been a really drunk straight guy. But she’d said no, that Lance was very, very bi. Keith is trying not to feel too disappointed that Lance hasn’t texted him. He only properly spent time with the guy once, after all.  _ And, _ he thinks, looking over at the field where his father is cutting the hay,  _ it’s probably for the best anyway. _

Is a few hours of conversation followed by drunken flirting enough to constitute a crush? Keith really isn’t sure. He decides it’s too early in the day to think about this kind of thing anyway. 

His mind wanders to the Stampede, which is now only a few weeks away. He’s practiced for his saddle bronc event a couple more times in the past two weeks, using the wild horse that he’d previously borrowed from Margaret. Keith wishes he could have practiced more, but Robert wasn’t kidding when he said they were going to be cautious this year. It still frustrates him, though, knowing that as the Stampede draws closer, opportunities to practice will be even more few and far between. So he does what he can in the meantime, doing push-ups and lifting his set of weights in the evenings after his chores are done. When it comes down to it, he really only has to be two things at the Stampede: strong enough to hold on, and uninjured enough to participate. 

The rest of the morning passes in relative peace for Keith — just the hot, hot sun on his back, and disembodied song lyrics swirling through his head. He hums a little as he works, pulling the weeds out of the garden, going slowly and methodically, so as not to miss a single one. Just as he pulls the last weed from the zucchini patch, he hears the noisy farm equipment out on the field shut off. Robert must be finished with the hay, then, and heading in for lunch. 

Keith gets up and stretches, arching his back and reaching his arms overhead, then walks over to where the garden hose is kept. He turns on the tap and walks back to the garden to give it a thorough watering. When he’s done, before he shuts off the tap, he gets some water in the palm of his hand and presses it to the back of his neck. The cold — well, cold-ish — water feels so, so good in the heat. A few tendrils of his hair soak up some water and cling to his neck, sending droplets down the back of his shirt. Keith doesn’t bother to wipe it up as he winds up the hose and makes his way down the hill and over to the farmhouse. He can see his dad through the kitchen window, probably preparing sandwiches for the two of them before they go back to work for the afternoon.

And that’s when his phone goes off. Two quick buzzes in succession that he feel through the back pocket of his dusty jeans. 

He almost freezes mid-step, but lets his foot fall to the ground. He reaches around and pulls his phone out of his pocket, handling it as carefully as if it were a bomb. 

Cupping his hand around the phone, he wakes up the screen and tries to make out what it says, squinting against the glare of the sun. 

It’s a text, from a number he doesn’t recognize. 

One word. 

**Unknown:** hey.

Heart in his throat, Keith chances another look into the kitchen window. His dad is still there. Still making sandwiches. Still not noticing Keith, who’s glancing as furtively at his phone as if it were a banned book. 

And then he’s one step away from running, moving toward the barn at the fastest speed that still qualifies as a walk. 

He turns his phone on again only when he’s in the shade and privacy of the barn, perched on top of a stack of rectangular hay bales. 

Palms slightly clammy, heart racing, mind moving a mile a minute, Keith enters in his passcode and taps out a response. 

* * *

Lance is still sitting in his blanket nest, phone growing warm in his hand, and kind of regretting sending that text. This was a bad idea. He should’ve left that note in the drawer, where it was out of sight and comfortably out of mind. This was a very, very bad idea—

His phone pings, and he startles. He also lets out an undignified little squawk, and he’s thankful that Hunk and Pidge aren’t around right now to make fun of him for it. 

_ Huh. That was fast. _ His eyes flit to the message on the screen. 

**Keith:** Hey yourself

Lance smiles.  _ Getting right to the flirting, are we? _

Suddenly, his phone goes off again.

**Keith:** Also who is this

* * *

Keith tries to push his hopes down.  _ It could be a wrong number. _ And ‘hey’ was a super generic message. Just because he gave Lance his number doesn’t mean that this is Lance texting him. Stranger coincidences have happened in Keith’s life. Doesn’t mean it’s—

**Unknown:** lance lol

**Unknown:** from the party. 

_ Oh. _

* * *

Lance waits two or three minutes for a reply. When one doesn’t come, he extracts himself from the blanket nest and leaves to make more tea. 

But when he returns a few minutes later, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of chamomile, the screen is lit up with a series of messages. 

**Keith:** Ok

**Keith:** I figured it was you but I didn’t recognize the number

**Keith:** How are you? :)

_ Cute.  _ Lance smiles to himself. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

* * *

Just as Keith finishes entering Lance into his contact list, his phone buzzes. 

**Lance:** well i’m sick rn but otherwise p good :)

**Lance:** and yourself?

Keith smiles and taps out a response. 

* * *

This time, Lance doesn’t have to wait long for Keith to reply. Another ping comes from his phone a few seconds after he sends the last message. 

**Keith:** Not too bad. Sorry to hear that you’re sick by the way

**Lance:** thanks :)

**Keith:** Is it just a cold or

**Lance:** yeah but it’s a gnarly one so i’m staying home from work

**Lance:** i think it’s worse than that hangover i had on saturday morning lol

**Keith:** Oh?

**Keith:** How bad was the hangover anyway

**Lance:** it wasn’t the most fun i’ve ever had but all things considered it wasn’t horrible

**Keith:** That’s good haha

**Lance:** yeah

**Lance:** oh and i have a thing to ask you

**Keith:** Ok

**Keith:** Go for it

* * *

The seconds seem to drag by as Keith waits for an answer. He can see the trio of floating dots that means Lance is typing. He isn’t sure if they’re making him more or less nervous. 

A buzz startles him out of his reverie. 

**Lance:** what are you doing on saturday

Keith has never been more grateful for the darkness of the barn, as it hides the rosy blush that’s rising in his cheeks. 

* * *

_ Ping. _

**Keith:** Just working

**Lance:** you have a ranch right?

**Keith:** Yeah

**Keith:** No days off when you own a farm

Lance pushes down his disappointment, reconfiguring the blankets around his shoulders. Maybe Keith changed his mind?

**Lance:** oh ok no worries

He’s about to change the subject when his phone pings again.

**Keith:** I’m free on evenings though

Lance backspaces the message he had typed, flopping back onto the pillows propped against his headboard. Grinning, he taps out a new reply. 

* * *

Keith is probably going to be late for lunch, but he doesn’t care. It won’t be the first time, but all the times before, he was late because he was finishing chores. Never because he was hiding in the hay pile texting a guy. 

**Lance:** sweet

**Lance:** would around 7 be ok?

**Keith:** Yes

He sends it before he even thinks about whether he’s actually free that night. 

**Lance:** cause i know this pub downtown called nicola’s that has really good food

**Lance:** but i know you wanted to hang out sober, so maybe we could just hang out and eat chicken wings or smth?

Somehow, it’s possible for Keith’s cheeks to get warmer, for his heart to beat faster. 

**Keith:** I’d like that a lot

**Lance:** ok awesome

**Lance:** want me to pick you up?

**Keith:** Nah it’s ok, just text me the address

**Lance:** k just a sec

**Lance:** 5105 North Trommel Avenue

**Lance:** there ya go!

**Keith:** Thanks :)

**Lance:** so i’ll see you then?

**Keith:** Yeah

Keith is smiling, not thinking, when he types out his next message. 

**Keith:** It’s a date

_ Shit. _

There are no little dots to indicate that Lance is typing, but the checkmark by the text shows that he definitely saw the message. 

**Keith:** Unless I’m interpreting this wrong

He holds his breath. 

Until finally,  _ finally _ Lance replies. 

**Lance:** no i promise you are interpreting this 100% correctly

The cold dread in Keith’s stomach seems to drop out of him, replaced with something warm and a little nervous, but so,  _ so _ excited. A little laugh burbles out of him before he can stop it.

**Keith:** Ok whew haha

**Keith:** See you then :)

**Lance:** see ya ;)

Keith steps out of the barn and into the sunshine, and as he walks back to the house, he swears he’s almost floating.

* * *

_ Well. _

Lance sits there, cocooned in his blankets, and sets his phone back on the nightstand.

_ I guess that just happened. _

By now, it’s almost twelve-thirty. Lance promised himself that he’d do work in the afternoon, and the afternoon is here. It takes him a minute or two to work up to leaving the warmth of his bed. 

He pads over to the kitchen to find some lunch and a fresh cup of tea. The cup he had gotten while waiting for Keith to text back ended up sitting on his nightstand, forgotten. Now it’s cold, and the lemon juice has settled at the bottom. Lance sets the kettle to boil and heats up a pan to make grilled cheese, then sets up his laptop at the dining table, along with his notebook. 

When he’d asked Freya for an assignment, she’d told him to write something for the sports section of the Garrison City News website, but left the specific topic up to him. Lance is excited — he’s never been able to choose the subject of an article before. He finishes making lunch, then takes it over to the table and looks down at the fresh, blank page in his notebook. 

_ I wonder if Freya knows I know nothing about sports. _

This assignment might be harder than Lance anticipated. He’s usually a current-events kind of guy, mostly doing the news and occasionally dabbling in arts and culture. But sports? That’s foreign territory — it’s not something he’s particularly interested in, nor is it something he’s had to report on until now. 

So the logical course of action, naturally, is to google ‘Garrison City sports’, because Lance isn’t really sure how many teams there are in his city, or what they’re even playing. 

He hits enter, and a whole host of links come up. He clicks on the first one, deliberately ignoring the fact that it’s a Wikipedia article. 

Apparently, there’s a metric fuckton of sports teams in Garrison City — including a decent-ish baseball team; a not-at-all-decent football team that’s best known for losing; a women’s hockey team that made it to the finals every year for the past five years; and the Garrison City Stampede, which isn’t a team per se, but Wikipedia seems to be counting it as a sport. Lance only knows about it from hearing about it on the radio and seeing clips of it on TV. The Stampede never interested him any more than the other sports did, so those brief media mentions are the extent of his experience with it. 

Lance does some more reading, this time on sites that are neither Wikipedia nor other news outlets. He toys with the idea of writing something that has to do with the current season of… well, of anything, but he figures he’s probably not qualified to project on which team will win the baseball championship this year. 

Lance sighs.  _ Sports. _ Sports journalism isn’t like writing for the news or the arts section. Here, he isn’t chasing down current events, or being paid to see a Broadway-quality musical and then write a review of it (which has happened more than once — sometimes, Lance really,  _ really _ loves his job). Lance guesses that people do the same thing with sports — go to an event and then write about it. Hell, he  _ knows _ they do. Freya asked if he’d want to cover a sporting event on live television, and that’s the entire reason he’s writing an article while he’s home sick — to get ahead so he might have a chance at that live reporting position. But he’s sick. He can’t exactly make a snap decision to go to a sports game today just so he can report on it. He’ll have to come up with something else. 

But Lance is nothing if not resourceful, if not creative, if not always down for out-of-the-box thinking. So he doodles for a bit and eats his grilled cheese sandwich before it gets too cold, and nearly spits out his tea when his next idea comes to him. 

A backstory piece — a history, or better yet, a legacy. Letting people know where one of the city’s sports teams came from, and how they got to be where they are today. Lance figures that at least a few people will care intensely enough about sports that they’ll read it. Maybe it’s kind of on the same wavelength as collecting really old jerseys? 

He writes it all down in a hasty scribble of half-formed thoughts, then sits back and looks at the mess of ideas with a more critical eye. 

Huh. 

It might actually work. 

_ Fuck yeah. Lance does it again.  _

He decides to write about the baseball team, since it’s been around since the forties, and has the most history to write about. So he opens up a new document on his laptop, and starts trawling the city’s online newspaper archive for stuff he can use in  _ The History and Legacy of the Garrison City Lions. _

It isn’t long before he’s switching out his tea for strong coffee and getting completely immersed in the article, sitting up straighter and only stopping to get the box of tissues. 

Lance smiles to himself, his fingers dancing across the laptop keys. 

_ This might actually work. _

* * *

Keith kicks off his boots in the front porch and walks over to the kitchen. His dad is sitting at the table already, halfway done his sandwich. There’s a sandwich at Keith’s place, too — ham and mustard and lettuce, no cheese. 

Robert finishes his mouthful and looks at Keith. “How come you’re late?”

“I was sweeping the barn,” Keith blurts. He pulls out a chair and sits down, biting into his sandwich. 

Robert nods, then hesitates. “Didn’t you just sweep it yesterday?”

_ Way to plan ahead, Keith. _ “Uh… maybe?” he says after swallowing his bite of sandwich. “Actually, yes. Yes I did. But Oreo tracked a bunch of dirt through it, so it was dirty again, so I needed to sweep it. Again.” 

He looks back over at his dad, to see if he’s buying the story. Keith  _ hates _ lying; he’s shitty at it and they both know it. His dad is going to think something’s up for sure—

“Okay.” Robert shrugs and finishes his sandwich. “Thanks for doing that. Appreciate it.” 

“No problem,” Keith squeaks, and takes another bite of sandwich so that his mouth can’t get him into any more trouble. 

After lunch, Keith is in the camping trailer with his dad, doing the semi-annual deep-cleaning of it. They’ve never actually used the camping trailer for camping, since it’s impossible to get away for a weekend when there are animals to be looked after. Robert bought the trailer seven years ago, when Keith started doing rodeos, because staying in it allows them to be closer to the animals they bring. Even though the Garrison City Stampede is barely a twenty-minute drive from the acreage, they stay in it then, too. Staying on-site is just more convenient. 

The Stampede is fast approaching, so it’s time to clean the trailer. Robert is vacuuming the mattress of Keith’s fold-out sofa bed with the Shop-Vac. With the vacuum droning on, neither of them talks,  but Keith hums a tune to himself as he wipes down the counters of the tiny kitchenette. His nose crinkles when he finds a dead moth hiding in the corner, but he just drops it in the garbage bag that’s sitting on the floor beside him. The abundance of dead bugs he finds every time they clean the trailer is arguably one of the worst parts of the whole deal, but it would take a lot to put a damper on Keith’s mood today. He’s still high on the knowledge that he has a date. On Saturday. With a really,  _ really _ cute guy. 

The vacuum shuts off. Robert unplugs it from the outlet in the wall, then looks around at the interior of the trailer. “Looks good,” he says. “I think we’re just about done.”

Keith nods. “All right. I was thinking I might take Oreo for a ride this afternoon.”

“Sure thing.” Robert smiles. “After you clean the bathroom.” 

“Okay.” Keith looks around. “Is the stuff out here, or did we leave it in the house?”

“In the house,” Robert says. He looks at Keith for a long moment. “Wait. You’re not complaining about having to scrub the toilet.”

Keith is halfway out the door to run and get the cleaning supplies, but he pokes his head back in. “So?”

“It’s just unusual. Who are you and what have you done with Keith?” 

“Dunno.” Keith shrugs, and hops down the step and onto the ground. “I guess I’m just having a good day.” 

He jogs over to the house, a smile creeping back onto his face. 

He has a date. 

The excitement buzzing through his veins is almost enough to drown out his uneasiness.

Keith has a date with Lance, and his dad has no idea. 

* * *

Lance’s finger is hovering over the clicker on his mouse, hesitating for just a moment longer before clicking send. He’s been in journalism for years, but even so, he can’t seem to shake the self-doubt that hits right before submitting an article. The thoughts of  _ what if it’s not good enough? _ usually subside, though, after he’s sent it. Somehow, knowing that he’s done his best, and there’s nothing else that can be done, is a comfort. 

He gets up from his seat at the dining table and stretches, looking at the clock. It’s almost five. Hammering away at the article for nearly four and a half hours has taken a toll on Lance. He loves writing, but he hasn’t felt this exhausted from it since he was a student, pulling caffeine-fueled all-nighters so he could hand in a term paper on time. 

Hunk and Pidge should be home soon. Lance always craves company after a long day of writing, but what he really wants now is a bath; maybe the steam will clear his sinuses. He scoops up the empty coffee mugs that have accumulated on the table in the past four hours and takes them to the sink. Washing them can wait until later. Then he grabs a pair of clean, cozy pajamas from his room and goes to fill the tub. 

Leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, Lance strips and runs a comb through his hair. While the water’s running, he pours in some lemon-scented bath salts that were a gift from Allura. The tub isn’t even half-full yet, but Lance gets in anyway, pulling his knees to his chest as chilly air brushes against his bare skin. Setting his glasses on the edge of the tub, he turns up the water temperature and sits back, letting the sound of flowing water lull him into a relaxed state. He can almost imagine it’s the sound of a river rushing, if he closes his eyes. The air is thick and warm by the time he shuts the water off, and steam has condensed on the mirrors. 

Lance leans back all the way, letting the silence fill his ears. It’s absolute, almost overpowering, interrupted only by the sloshing noises when he shifts in the bathtub. He thinks about going to get his phone so he can play some music, but then he remembers that his friends will get home soon. It’s unlikely that Hunk and Pidge would appreciate it if they came home to find him traipsing through the apartment dripping wet and naked. 

Lance’s eyes slip shut as he immerses himself in the water as much as he can. The bathtub is on the smaller side; probably made for someone closer to Pidge’s size than his own. He dips his head back into the water, and just feels; feels the heat of the water filling his ears and blocking out sound, feels the chill that begins to spread over his exposed knees as the air clings to water droplets on his skin. It helps some, to quiet his mind when his thoughts are just too loud.  _ Don’t think right now. Just feel. _

After a few minutes of focusing solely on the water and his breathing, Lance opens his eyes. He feels calmer, more awake. And, as he uncaps the shampoo bottle and works his hair into a eucalyptus-scented lather, he feels better equipped to let in the thoughts that are pounding on the door of his brain. 

_ Yes, you caught all the typos in that article. And if you didn’t, that’s what editors are for.  _

Lance shifts in the tub so that he can rinse the frothy bubbles out of his hair. Folding his legs so that all of him fits in the bathtub, he massages his scalp with the pads of his fingers, letting the shampoo diffuse into the water around him. His fingers curl around tendrils of hair, floating and undulating in the water like ribbons. 

_ Need a haircut soon. _

_ It’s been awhile. _

Been awhile since his last haircut, and, well — since he’s done  _ this; _ since he’s invited someone out to dinner with the plan of inviting them to his apartment afterward. 

_ Almost seven months, actually, _ Lance realizes as he conditions his hair, letting it soak in as he moves on to wash his body. Hunk might raise an eyebrow when Lance tells him that he’s got a date, but that’s okay. 

Lance scrubs his arms, then contorts into the weird position required to wash his legs and feet. It’s normal, he tells himself, to spend a night with somebody cute every once in awhile. Things aren’t like they used to be;  _ Lance _ isn’t like he used to be, hooking up with strangers on the regular. That was months ago. He’s better now. 

The realization that it has, indeed, been months since his last hookup — that it’s been a little over a year since he ended things with Elena — hits him hard. It certainly doesn’t  _ feel _ like it’s been that long. Sometimes it feels like he blinked and missed the passage of an entire year. It went by impossibly fast, but he certainly hasn’t forgotten any of it. The memories of being with Elena just aren’t as sharp as they used to be. Looking back on them, it’s almost like he’s watching a movie of someone else’s life _. _

_ Maybe it’s a good sign, _ Lance thinks as he squiggles forward in the tub and rinses the conditioner out of his hair. Because here he is, thinking about the past two years, thinking about Elena as casually as if he was recalling what he had for breakfast. The mess of emotions is still there, but it’s healed over a lot in the past year, and it would take a lot more picking at proverbial scabs for it to sting in the same way that it used to.

His train of thought circles back to Keith, and the prospect of Saturday. That in itself is another tangle of emotions. On one hand, something apprehensive has settled itself deep in his belly; a creature that only knows survival, that warns him against falling into another pattern of one-night stands. But on the other hand, there’s something warm, something hopeful and curious. If his apprehension is a wild animal, then this hope is like a butterfly, graceful and fleeting, drinking in life’s sweetness. Lance hopes it’ll stick around.  

He sits up, left with the sudden silence of no longer having his ears submerged in water. The water in the tub has cooled off some, and so has the air — it’s giving him chilly kisses all along his shoulders and back and arms. His fingers are pruning up, and sitting in a pool of lukewarm water feels kind of gross, so he decides to get out. Lance wraps himself in the fluffy towel he brought with him to the bathroom, and pulls the plug on the tub. 

He feels worlds better when he leaves the bathroom warm and dry, his skin soft from lotion. It’s five-thirty, and Hunk and Pidge still aren’t home, so Lance goes back to his room, flops down on his bed, and calls his mom. 

The phone rings a few times before she picks up. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Mamá.”

Lance can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “Hi, mijo. How are you?”

“Good.” Lance dangles his legs off the edge of the bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

“You sound sick,” Sofia says. 

“Yeah. My head’s full of snot,” Lance replies. “But I’m feeling better than I was this morning. And I just got finished an article, so.”

“I hope you stayed home from work.” Lance knows that his mother is raising her eyebrows right now. 

“I did,” he says quickly. “I did, I just… didn’t want to fall behind, so I asked for an assignment.” 

“You know it’s okay to take a day off, right?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Lance laughs, and he hears his mother laugh on the other end of the phone. “But there’s this live reporting position opening up soon, and I really,  _ really _ want it.” 

“What kind of live reporting position?”

“Mmm… at a sporting event of some kind, I think,” Lance says. “I don’t know; Freya hasn’t told me a lot about it. I just know that it’s on live TV.”

“When is it?”

“In a couple months, maybe? Definitely in the summertime.”

Sofia’s voice is warm. “I’m excited for you, mijo.”

“Me, too.” Lance takes the phone away from his head and coughs. “Anyway, how are you? How are things at home?”

“Good, good. Your father’s renovating the bathroom.”

“Still?”

“Yes, still.”

“But it’s been in the works for months!” 

Sofia laughs. “Don’t tell him that. Besides, you have to admire his tenacity.”

“Slow and steady, I guess,” Lance says. “Maybe it’ll be done by the time Carmen graduates.” Carmen is Lance’s eight-year-old niece.

“I’m sure he’ll get it done.”

“Probably.”

“That’s enough,” Sofia says, but there’s no real sternness to her words. Lance can tell that she’s biting back a smile. “Let him live.” She clears her throat. “Tell me about your week. What else has been happening?”

“Well…” Lance pauses, considering, then decides to spill the beans. “I have a date.” 

“Oh? What’s their name?”  
“His name’s Keith,” Lance says. “He has a ranch.” 

“You’re dating a cowboy?”

“Well, technically I’m not dating him because we haven’t even gone on one date yet, but… yeah, he’s a cowboy, I guess.” 

“Is he cute?” 

“Yeah.” Keith’s indigo eyes and wry smile come to mind. Lance sighs and sprawls out further on his bed. “I guess I’m just nervous that things are gonna escalate and I’ll end up dating him and it’ll be a repeat of the situation with Elena. Which is silly, I know, but…” He makes a noise of frustration. “I just can’t shake the feeling, I guess.” 

“Well,” Sofia says, “you have a couple options. You could cancel the date and save yourself from any bad things that might happen—”

“But he seemed really nice, and I don’t want to cancel on him,” Lance says. “What if I miss out on something good?”

“—or you could go and see what he’s like, and then if he’s an asshole, you can kick him to the curb,” Sofia finishes. 

“Yeah,” Lance says. “I mean, that was my plan. I think I just still feel a little weird about dating after the whole thing with Elena.” 

Sofia sighs into the telephone. “And that’s a normal way to feel, after all the shit she put you through. But you’re resilient. You’re stronger every day, mijo, and I am so proud of you.” She pauses, and Lance can hear her long intake of breath crackling in his ear. She’s a little quieter when she speaks again. “I just wish I didn’t have to be proud of you for this.” 

Lance shrugs, then remembers that he’s talking on the phone, and his mother can’t see him shrug. “Yeah, well. Can’t go back and change it.”

“I know.” Another pause. “When is your date?”

“Saturday,” Lance says. “At seven.” 

“And you’re still coming home for dinner on Sunday.” It isn’t a question. 

Lance laughs a little, but it turns into a cough. “Of course I am, Mamá.”

“Good,” Sofia says. “I want to hear all about this Keith fellow, and I’m sure the rest of the family will, too.” 

“Okay,” Lance says. He hears the front door open. Hunk and Pidge must be home. “I’ll see you on Sunday, then?”

“Five o’clock,” Sofia says. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. Love you, Mamá.”

“Love you too, mijo. Make sure to rest up and get feeling better.”

“I will.”

Lance waits to hang up until he hears a click on the other end. Then he puts on his slippers and pads over to the front door to greet his friends. 

When he gets there, though, he only sees Hunk, taking off his shoes and dropping his bag on the counter. 

Hunk brightens when he sees Lance. “Hey, man! How’re you feeling?”

“Eh. Better than I was this morning,” Lance says. “How are you?”

“About ready to let the astronauts fend for themselves,” Hunk says. “It was a long, long day.” He moves into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “I’ll be better when I’m not hungry and tired.” 

Lance smiles. “Won’t we all.” There’s a beat of quiet as Hunk rummages through the fridge. “I didn’t germ up your leftovers, by the way.” 

Hunk laughs. “How generous of you.” 

“Nothing but the best for my friends,” Lance says, batting his eyelashes. Then he looks back at the door. “Wait. Where’s Pidge?” 

Hunk emerges from the fridge. “I thought she was already here?”

Lance shakes his head. “I’ve been alone all day.”

“That’s weird. She told me she was coming home, like, almost an hour ago.” 

“Oh shit.” Lance’s feet are taking him back to his room, back to his phone. 

“Maybe she texted you and you didn’t notice?” Hunk calls, reading Lance’s mind. 

“Probably,” Lance calls back, picking up his phone. “I just got off the phone with my mom, so…” 

Sure enough, when he wakes up the screen, there’s a series of increasingly frantic texts from Pidge. 

**Pidge:** hey so my car decided to be an asshole again and i need some tools. im kinda near the 7-11 that we got kicked out of two years ago

**Pidge:** ill be eternally grateful if you bring me said tools

Those are the first messages. 

From half an hour ago. 

_ Shit. _

**Pidge:** lance????? 

**Pidge:** please dude like i jsut need my 3/8 inch ratchet and my vise grips and my breaker bar and a jack

**Pidge:** and maaaybe a flashlight

**Pidge:** lance are you there

**Pidge:** this neighbourhood is kinda sketch

And then some texts from not even five minutes ago. 

**Pidge:** LANCE ALVAREZ 

**Pidge:** PLS ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE

“Is she okay?” Hunk calls from the kitchen. 

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Lance calls back. “Sounds like her car just broke down.”  
“Again? I keep telling her that thing is a death trap.”

“She’s not gonna part with Rover unless he explodes,” Lance replies. “Maybe not even then.” 

**Lance:** pidge pidge pigeon im sorry i was on the phone w/my mom

**Lance:**  are u still near 711 cause i can bring you those things

**Pidge:** oh thank god yes im still at 711

**Pidge:**  the people inside think im a loiterer lol

**Lance:** k ill be there as soon as i can like maybe 20 min at the latest

**Pidge:** bless u 

Lance walks down the hallway and pushes open the door to Pidge’s room. Her toolbox is shiny, bright green, and the size of a dresser, and it’s tucked under her loft bed next to her desk. Lance just stares at it for a moment, then looks back at the texts Pidge sent him earlier.  _ Ratchet, vise grips, breaker bar, jack, flashlight. _ This isn’t the first time Pidge’s beloved Rover has broken down, nor is it the first time Lance has brought tools to a stranded Pidge and hung out while she fixed her car in a parking lot. He puts the tools into Pidge’s smaller, portable toolbox, then heads to the porch to swap out his slippers for shoes. 

“You’re going in your pajamas?” Hunk asks, looking up from his paperback and leftover stir fry. 

“I didn’t choose the thug life, Hunk,” he says, grabbing his car keys from the hook. “It chose me, in the form of robot pajama pants. Duty calls.” 

“Be safe,” Hunk says. 

Lance salutes. “Will do.” 

When he arrives at the parking lot of the convenience store ten minutes later, he finds Pidge perched on the hood of her car, getting the occasional glare from the cashier inside, who evidently still remembers the two of them from the incident a couple years earlier. 

“Took you long enough,” Pidge says, but she’s smiling. “And nice pajamas.”

It’s almost summer, so the sun isn’t going to set until eight o’clock at least, and so Lance stays with Pidge until her battered green Volkswagen no longer sounds like it’s on the brink of collapsing. The sky is a strange painting of blues and pinks and oranges and lilacs, and the air is warm, and Lance is warm. He’s sitting in his pajamas in the parking lot of Seven-Eleven (technically they didn’t get banned from the parking lot), and he’s talking to one of his favourite people in the world. 

_ And things, _ Lance decides,  _ things are good. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading, and i hope you enjoyed it!! and thank you to [TotallynotFanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallynotFanfics) for beta reading! 
> 
> i'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter! i read and reply to every comment i get, and tbh interacting with readers and other fan authors is one of my favourite things about writing fic. 
> 
> until next time! (whenever that may be lol)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lads, and happy halloween! this chapter almost didn't get done in time, but here it is lol. i'm mostly happy with how it turned out, so i hope you enjoy it too ^-^
> 
> i'm starting nanowrimo tomorrow, so this fic will be on hiatus for the month of november. i do plan to finish it though, and there will likely be an update sometime in december. see you then, and hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Keith:** **Photo attachment**

**Keith:** Ok what about this one?

It’s twenty minutes after six, and Keith is dividing his time between trying on shirts and frantically glancing at the clock. At this point he’s just trying on clean-smelling stuff from his dresser while he waits for Allura to reply to his texts.

**Allura:** looks like a sweater

**Keith:** Come on I have to leave soon I need something nice to wear

**Keith:** Give me some real feedback

**Allura:** looks hot

**Keith:** Actually?

**Allura:**  like hot as in warm

**Keith:** Oh

**Allura:** maybe try a tshirt? like it’s june, it’s probably gonna be warm out

**Keith:** Okay good point

Keith tugs off the sweater, turning it inside out as he does so, then whips it across the room as he walks back to his dresser. It lands on his bed with a soft _thwump_. Rifling through the shirt drawer, he pulls out a lump of black fabric. He’s not really sure what it is, since like most of his clothes, it got stuffed into the drawer while turned inside out.

He puts it on, and apparently it’s a black crew-neck t-shirt that fits pretty well. He’s about to take a picture in the mirror and send it to Allura when he notices the hole in the side seam.

**Allura:** well?

**Keith:** Fucking hell the thing I have on has a big hole in it

**Keith:** Just gimme a minute

With an aggravated sigh, Keith takes off the t-shirt and flings it over his shoulder. It lands on the bed with the red sweater. He checks his watch. 6:25. _Fuck._ Five minutes until he has to leave, considering it’s a fifteen-minute drive to the edge of the city, and probably another fifteen to the pub where he’s meeting Lance.

Keith rummages through the drawer again, throwing shirts that he knows are a ‘no’ on the floor. Finally, he stumbles across a lump of soft navy blue cotton in the very back of the drawer. He yanks it over his head, then goes back to the mirror and snaps a quick photo.

**Keith:** **Photo attachment**

**Keith:** If this one doesn’t work I’m going naked

There’s no check mark next to his message, so Allura hasn’t seen it yet. Keith takes a moment to properly look in the mirror at the shirt, since he didn’t get a good look at it when he grabbed it.

It’s a fairly plain t-shirt; just a dark blue V-neck with short sleeves, more fitted than what he usually wears. Keith tugs the hem down and turns around, looking at his reflection. It’s simple, but it shows off his arms, made muscular from hauling buckets of food and water to animals, and his shoulders, which broadened a little once he hit his twenties. It’s simple, but—

**Allura:** looks good!!

Keith spins around in the mirror once more, taking in his reflection.

_Yeah._ Keith smiles in the mirror. _It does look good._

He grabs his wallet and sunglasses from on top of his dresser, then heads downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, because finding a shirt took _way_ longer than he anticipated.

Robert is in the living room when he walks past on his way to the porch, reading the newspaper with his glasses on.

“Where did you say you were going again?” Robert calls from his worn-in easy chair.

“Uh.” Keith freezes. He hadn’t thought of how he was going to explain this. “Just out for dinner,” he says, taking his truck keys off the hook at the door and slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. “With some friends.”

“Ah,” Robert says, nodding and looking back at the newspaper. “Well, have fun.”

“I will,” Keith says. He’s out the door before his father can sense the thoughts of _you’re a shitty liar, Keith Kogane_ that are running through Keith so fast that they might as well have replaced his blood.

The drive into town is a quiet one. The radio plays at a soft volume, and Keith sings along under his breath until an advertisement comes on, urging people to buy tickets for the Garrison City Stampede before they’re all gone. Every so often, Keith finds himself forgetting about the Stampede, only to be reminded of it by something on the radio or in the news. The Stampede is about a month away now, and thinking about it sends nervousness and excitement throughout him. This is the biggest rodeo in North America, and finally, Keith gets to be part of it.

_As long as I don’t break my leg again._

It feels like it’s been forever since the first year he was in the Stampede. Keith was twenty-three that year, and narrowly missed qualifying for the final round of competition. The  year after, when Keith was twenty-four, he got bucked off a horse while practicing the week before the Stampede. One trip to the emergency room and one cast later, and he had to withdraw from the competition.

But this year, here he is, competing again. Saying that he wants to place this year is an understatement — sometimes it’s all he can think about. It’s a dream infused with a stubborn streak; an ambition. A local kid hasn’t won the saddle bronc championship in Garrison City in decades. That’s part of the appeal of winning — making history. But Keith also wants to win for himself. He wants the achievement, wants to be able to say _yeah, I did that._ And the one hundred thousand dollars of prize money given for first place certainly wouldn’t hurt either.

The roads are busier once Keith gets into the city. It’s a Saturday night, after all. He’s not the only person in town with places to be. _With a date._

Yesterday, he looked up the address Lance gave him. The pub — Nicola’s — is in a part of town that Keith rarely passes through. On the way there, he passes the brightly coloured exterior of a comic book store, a tall brick building that houses a spice merchant, and countless little cafés and shops. It’s an artsy, young part of town. When Keith parks in the lot behind Nicola’s, his is the only truck among all the hatchbacks and tiny cars made for city driving.

Keith pushes open the heavy wooden door, a thrill of nerves running through him. It’s dark inside the pub, a stark contrast to the brilliant orange rays of dying sunlight outside. The soft golden light emanating from wall sconces gives the pub a cozy feel, especially combined with the dark oak and rich burgundy leather of the booths.

Keith looks around, then at his watch. Despite the hassle of finding a shirt, he’s a few minutes early. There’s no sign of Lance anywhere in the restaurant, nor are there any tables available, so he stands in the lobby with the five or six others who are there, and waits.

 

* * *

 

Lance taps his left foot against the floorboards, leaving his right firmly planted on the brake. Ahead of him, traffic is inching along at the pace of a snail. The clock in the dash says 7:05. He should’ve taken that detour back on 10th Street; should’ve listened to Google Maps when it said there was construction on the route he had planned on taking. But he didn’t. So here he is, stuck in traffic during what should have been a five-minute drive to Nicola’s, about to seem like an asshole who can’t even bother to show up on time. Or worse, somebody who just bailed without a word.

Only one lane is open on the two-lane road, so Lance and everybody else going south has to wait their turn. It doesn’t look like things are going to start moving in the next minute, so Lance pulls out his phone and texts Keith.

**Lance:** hey so i’m probably going to be a few minutes late cause traffic is horrible right now. i’m really really sorry about this

He looks back up at the road, inching forward along with the other cars. When they come to a stop again, he checks his phone and sees a reply from Keith.

**Keith:** Ok thanks for letting me know. When do you expect to get here?

**Lance:** i wish i knew :P hopefully in the next 5-10 mins but i’ll keep you posted

**Lance:** i completely understand if you’d rather reschedule though

**Keith:** Nah, I’m good with waiting. See you in a few?

Lance looks up again, and sees the last of the traffic coming from the other direction. The construction worker flips the sign they’re holding from ‘STOP’ to ‘SLOW’, and finally, _finally_ the cars ahead of him start moving.

Once the road is back to normal and no longer flanked with orange pylons, the rest of the drive to Nicola’s goes fairly smoothly. Lance parks behind the pub, next to a cherry red pickup truck, then goes inside.

Keith is waiting for him in the entryway, leaned up against the wood-paneled wall.

“Hey,” Lance says breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Keith smiles, warm and shy. “How are you?”

“Good,” Lance says. “I’m good. And you?”

“Pretty good.”

Lance nods in the direction of the dining area. “Want to go grab a table?”

“Um. About that,” Keith says. His eyes flicker toward the dining room. “There aren’t any.”

“Shit.” Lance peers around the corner, and sure enough, the pub is bustling, without an empty table in sight. “Should’ve made a reservation or something.” He looks back at Keith. “I’m really sorry about this. Like, first I’m late, and now there are no tables—” He makes a noise of frustration.

“It’s fine,” Keith says, and he sounds like he means it. “Really. We could always go someplace else.”

Lance casts one more glance back at the packed dining room, then looks at Keith. “I… okay. Yeah. We can do that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says. “I’ve never really been in this part of town before. I don’t know what there is around here.”

“Oh. Well, I live near here,” Lance says. “I know some places.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a park on Tenth and Queen’s,” Lance says, “that has a bunch of food stands and a pond, and it’s a really pretty place… I mean, if you wanted to go there?”

Keith’s lips quirk upward in a smile. “That sounds nice.”

“C’mon, then.” Lance holds the door open for Keith as they step out onto the street. “Let’s go exploring.”

They end up strolling along the busy city street in the light of dusk. Keith is looking everywhere, taking in all the buildings and businesses. As they pass by the neon glow of a retro arcade, Keith asks, “So you live around here?”

“Yeah, I live about a mile and a half away. During university, Hunk and Pidge and I would explore down here all the time. Cheap entertainment, y’know?” Keith nods. “So yeah, I know my way around here pretty well.”

“Cool.”

There’s a beat of silence, and it’s coated in that rosy, awkward glow that only first dates are.

“You have a ranch, right?” Lance asks, trying to get the conversation rolling again.

“Yeah,” Keith says. He looks surprised, if only for a second, that Lance remembered. Surprised and touched. “My dad and I do. It’s a family thing.”

They keep walking in the direction of the park. “So do you guys raise cows, and stuff?”

Keith nods. “Horses and beef cattle, but the horses are pretty much pets. We had goats once, too, but that didn’t end well.”

“Oh?” Lance raises an eyebrow. “I feel like there’s a story behind that.”

“Well,” Keith begins, a playful smile crossing his face, “have you ever been around goats?”

Lance shakes his head.

“The first thing you should know about goats is that they’ll eat anything,” Keith says.

“And the second thing?”

“Is that they’re assholes.”

“Wow,” Lance teases. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Anyway,” Keith says, “I was out putting fresh water in the goats’ trough, when I feel something headbutt me in the shin. So I turn around, and there’s this little four-legged jerk right beside me. And you know what he does? He starts eating my shirt.”

A snort-laugh escapes Lance before he can help it. “Wait, what?”

“He was eating it!” Keith says, gesturing at his side. “The same way he would eat grass! Like, he chewed an entire hole in the side of my shirt.” Keith is giggling now too, and Lance is so caught up in Keith’s smile, and the crinkle of his eyebrows, and the joy splashed across his face that he only narrowly avoids running into a lamppost.

“Oh god,” Lance laughs, shaking his head. He points to the left, down Tenth Street. “The park’s this way, by the way.” The ‘walk’ sign is flashing on the traffic signal, so they scurry across the street. When the reach the curb on the other side, Lance says, “So you wrangle goats for a living, huh?”

“Not anymore,” Keith says, and grins. “To this day, I have no fucking clue what possessed my dad to buy those.” He laughs again, softly. “So what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a journalist,” Lance says. “For Garrison City News.” And yeah, he still feels a swell of pride saying that, even though the baseball article totally flopped and might have cost him his chances at the live reporting position. There’ll be other opportunities. He hopes, anyway.

“Print journalism, or…”

“A mix of print and television,” Lance says. “Basically whatever I get assigned to.” The park is coming into view ahead of them, all lush green trees at the peak of spring, with people strolling down the winding paths. “I cover a lot of fires,” he adds.

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Any particular reason?”

“Nah,” Lance says. “My supervisor just tends to give me all the fires.”

“Huh.” Keith pauses, and then says, “That’d be a really good cover-up if you were an arsonist.” A teasing smile plays on his lips. “You’re not secretly an arsonist, are you?”

Lance throws his hands up, then lets them fall against his sides with a _clap_. “You got me,” he says. “Don’t ask me about my hobbies, because every single one of them is arson.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Lance internally winces. That sounded way cooler in his head, but Keith laughs anyway, and Lance feels his nerves dissolve a little more.

They pass under the tall, ornate metal arch that serves as an entrance to the park. There are people scattered throughout the park — running alongside dogs, relaxing on the grass, weaving through the trees. While they walk, Lance’s eyes flicker from the path in front of them to Keith’s hand.

Keith looks around at the sprawling stretch of green around them, submerged in a concrete jungle where no one would expect it. “You were right,” he says. “This place is really pretty.”

Lance nods. “It’s one of my favourite places to go. I’m glad you like it.” They keep walking. “Wanna hold hands?”

Lance says it so nonchalantly, but surprise flickers through Keith’s eyes when he hears it. Keith looks around quickly, almost like he’s checking to make sure it’s safe. Then he looks back at Lance and takes a tiny, almost imperceptible step closer. “Yeah,” he says, at a volume that’s only for their ears, and twines their fingers together.

Keith’s hand is calloused, Lance notices, and a few degrees warmer than his own. A smile blooms across his face, and when he looks over, Keith’s smiling too, blushing furiously.

“So,” Lance says, his voice holding steady despite his brain doing backflips, “the food vendors are over there.” He points in the direction of the east side of the park. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

“Same,” Keith says. “Lead the way.”

The walk is a fairly short one, and after five or ten minutes, they arrive in a courtyard. It’s paved with cobblestones that are permeated by persistent tufts of grass. In the middle of the courtyard is a tall, multi-tiered fountain. Children are playing in the bottom tier, laughing and splashing each other as their parents watch. Surrounding the fountain are various food stands, and clusters of stone benches and picnic tables. A hundred or so yards away is the pond; the pond that Lance and Pidge went swimming in one night on a mutual dare. (That particular incident ended with sopping wet clothes, a stern talking-to from a bylaw officer, and a very exasperated Hunk, but it was _so_ worth it.)

They stroll across the cobblestones, still hand in hand, and check out the seven or eight different food carts. Eventually, they settle on crêpes, and watch as the person running the crêpe stand makes the paper-thin pancakes, fills them with toppings, and rolls them up. Lance gets a crêpe filled with ham and cheese and vegetables. Keith opts for fruit and Nutella.

“Nutritious,” Lance says teasingly. They’re perched on the wide stone ledge of the fountain.

“You’re just jealous,” Keith says, and there’s that sparkle in his eyes, the one that says he’s in on the joke. “Breakfast for supper is the way to go.”

“Isn’t that more dessert for supper?”

“Still the way to go.” Keith takes a bite of his crêpe, and Lance follows suit. Everything is delicious — the light, airy crêpe; the tart sweetness of the tomato; the crunch of the lettuce; the sharp flavours of the cheese and smoked ham; the warm, fluttering breeze that brushes over his face. He closes his eyes, soaking it all in, lets out a long, happy breath, and—

Keith swears.

Lance’s eyes snap open as he looks over to see what’s the matter.

Keith is dabbing furiously at his shirt with the flimsy napkin that came wrapped around the rolled-up crêpe. Chocolate syrup is running down his shirt, and so is a slice of banana. A couple chunks of strawberry lay on the ground by his feet.

“Shit,” Lance says. “What happened?”

Keith looks up from trying to clean his shirt. “I spilled.”

“Okay. Um.” Lance stands up, and reassesses the situation. There’s not a ton spilled on Keith’s shirt, but that single-ply napkin definitely isn’t going to cut it. “You know what? I’m gonna grab some more napkins. Be right back.” He dashes off to the crêpe stand and returns a few moments later.

“Thanks,” Keith says when Lance hands him a stack of napkins and a bottle of water.

“No problem,” Lance replies, and sits back down on the fountain’s ledge. Keith does his best to get the chocolate out of his shirt, deciding enough is enough after a couple minutes of scrubbing. It’s not like the remainder of the chocolate sauce is visible, anyway, on the dark navy fabric of his t-shirt.

“You said there was a pond earlier,” Keith says when he returns from throwing out the soggy clump of napkins.

Lance stands up and stretches, half-finished crêpe still in hand. “Yeah, it’s just over there. You wanna…”

“Yeah. I do.”

They walk over to the pond, through the lush grass, with the setting sun to their backs. The pond is a fair size, and ten or twelve feet deep. Cattails sprout up where the water meets the land, and a team of ducks glides across the deep blue surface.

They sit near on the ground near the edge of the pond, as close as they can be without getting wet. Lance listens as Keith tells  him about his ranch and his horse, Oreo. Keith laughs when Lance makes a face upon learning that Keith gets up at four in the morning most days.

“Jesus,” Lance says, and throws a piece of crêpe out to the ducks. Keith is still smiling, clearly amused. “I just… _How._ How can you get up that early and still function?”

“I don’t know,” Keith says. “I guess I’ve just always had to be an early riser.” On the pond, the piece of crêpe is floating, and the ducks are scrambling toward it. One of the ducks is quicker than the others, and snaps up the food.

Lance breaks off another piece of crêpe and throws it. “I both respect and fear people who get up before the sun, but I will never understand them.”

Keith laughs. “That’s fair.”

The ducks are clambering over one another for this piece of crêpe, too. Feeling generous, Lance tosses another piece out onto the pond. “So are you gonna keep farming for the rest of your life?”

“Ranching,” Keith corrects. “And yeah, I am. It’s what I grew up doing, and it makes me happy.” He pauses, and takes in a deep breath. “I think my dad has this idea that I’m gonna take over the farm with my future wife one day, but…”

“No future wife in the picture?” Lance guesses.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Pretty much.”

_So his dad doesn’t know._ Lance can’t imagine still being in the closet — he came out as bi when he was fifteen by singing a song about it, and his family has never been anything but accepting. His first instinct is to say something, but the look on Keith’s face says that he doesn’t want to talk about it. So he lets the subject drop.

Lance is about to change the subject to something lighter, something funnier, like last April Fool’s Day when he filled Pidge’s room with tiny plastic dinosaurs. But just then, one of the ducks discovers the source of the crêpes.

It starts paddling over to where Lance and Keith are sitting, letting out a _quack_. The other ducks stay in the centre of the pond, but they’re watching, and they keep watching as the lone duck waddles onto shore, toward Lance, and—

_“Ohfuckno!”_ Lance scrambles to his feet, dropping his partially-eaten crêpe in the process. The duck, which had been thisclose to climbing into Lance’s lap so it could reach the crêpe, quacks again, then waddles off happily, with the remainders of Lance’s dinner in its bill.

Lance and Keith look at each other, speechless until Lance says, “What. The fuck.”

“You okay?” Keith asks. His expression is a strange mixture of genuine concern and a feeble attempt at holding back laughter.

“It was gonna bite me!”

“Actually, I don’t think ducks have teeth,” Keith says. “And it probably cared more about your food.” He gestures at the duck, which is horking down the crêpe as fast as it possibly can.

“Still,” Lance says. “It was coming for me.”

“We could go somewhere without ducks,” Keith says, standing up and offering Lance his hand.

Lance grabs Keith’s hand and hauls himself up. “Ugh. Yes please.” He casts a glance back at the pond, where the ducks are staring at him with their beady little eyes. “Bye, assholes. Can’t believe I voluntarily fed you part of my dinner.”

The sun is almost all the way down by now, and by some unspoken agreement, Lance and Keith head back the way they came, exiting the lush greenery of the park and stepping out onto the city street. The neighbourhood is no less alive than it was a couples hours ago, with cars still whizzing down the road and people walking down the sidewalk. Some of the trees that line the boulevard are strung up with fairy lights, and now that it’s dark out, they’re casting a golden glow over the sidewalk, mingling with the light emanating from storefronts.

“Seems like everything’s out to get us today,” Lance comments as they walk down the street. “Like, first traffic was shitty, and then there were no tables at Nicola’s, and then your crêpe fell apart, and then that duck assaulted me, and… jeez. You’d think it was Friday the thirteenth, or something.”

“The universe is making up for the last Friday the thirteenth,” Keith says, smiling, “‘cause that was actually a pretty good day. For me, at least.”

Lance thinks back. “Yeah, same. Nothing catastrophic happened then, so I guess now we’ve gotta pay our dues.”

“Pay them in the form of shitty traffic and stolen sandwiches.”

“Exactly!” Lance laughs.

“All jokes aside, though,” says Keith when they’ve quieted down, “I’m having a really good time tonight. With you. So… yeah.”

“Me too,” says Lance. Keith wordlessly takes his hand, and Lance nods when Keith looks at him as if to say _is this okay?_ They stay like that, walking down the street, their joined hands swinging between them, bathed in the glow of streetlights.

After a while, Keith stops abruptly. Lance almost trips, but then rights himself and looks up at the building that Keith’s stopped in front of.

“We should go in here,” Keith says, pointing at the retro arcade, its neon lights forming halos in the night.

“Okay.” A bell tinkles as they pass through the door, and Lance says, “You know, with the luck we’re having today, I bet we get electrocuted by one of the games.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” says Keith. The inside of the arcade is swathed in dreamy purple light, and the walls are lined with games. On one side of the room, there’s an old-looking soda counter with red vinyl barstools lined up in front of it.

Keith catches Lance looking around. “You been in here before?”

Lance shakes his head.

“Me neither,” says Keith. Then he grins, and something stubborn takes up residence in his violet eyes. “I bet I can beat you at Ms. Pac Man.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Lance says, and lets Keith pull him toward the machine.

They play, standing with their shoulders pressed together. Keith wins the first round, and _definitely_ not because Lance was distracted the entire time. After Ms. Pac Man, they move on to Warlords, with each of them playing two controllers at once. Lance wins by a landslide.

“Nice work, sharpshooter,” Keith tells him as they wander over to the soda counter to order ice cream. Lance swears the room gets ten degrees warmer.

The sun has dipped all the way below the horizon by the time they leave the arcade and continue the walk back to Nicola’s. It’s cooled down a little since the beginning of the evening, but it’s still warm enough that neither of them needs a jacket.

The parking lot at Nicola’s is just as full as it was when Lance and Keith left. The pub is well-lit inside, and provides a clear view through the windows.

“Guess it’s a good thing we went on that adventure,” Lance says, eyeing the bustling restaurant. “Looks like we wouldn’t have gotten a table anyway.”

“No disrespect to Nicola’s,” Keith says, “but I think our adventure was way more fun.”

“Definitely.”

They reach the parking lot. Keith walks over to the red pickup truck that Lance had parked beside earlier that evening.

“Wait. That’s your truck?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, watching Lance unlock his blue Subaru. “Small world, I guess.”

“Guess so.”

There’s a lull. Then Keith says, “I had a really fun time tonight.”

“Me too.”

Keith reaches up to scratch his neck, shifting on his feet. It’s like he’s waiting; deciding.

Lance is about to drop his voice low, about to ask _do you want to come over to my apartment for a bit,_ but the words die behind his tongue, because Keith is surging forward and pressing a chaste kiss to Lance’s cheek, lips brushing across the barest hint of nine o’clock stubble.

And as suddenly as the kiss happened, Keith is back where he started, two and a half feet away. “I’ll see you later?” he says, almost shyly.

“Yeah,” Lance says, dazed as Keith climbs into his truck and the engine rumbles to life. “Yeah, you will.”

He gets into his car as Keith’s leaving the parking lot, and sits there for a moment, with his heart in his throat and his brain doing cartwheels and his fingertips pressed against his still-flushed cheek.

_Oh._

 

* * *

 

Keith gets the text later that night. After telling his dad that ‘dinner with friends’ was fun and then going outside to check the horses, he goes inside and strips down to his boxers. Keith decides he’ll be lucky to get six hours of sleep.

The two quick buzzes against his dresser startle him out of his almost-slumber. He shucks off the blankets and pads across the room to retrieve his phone, then crawls back into bed, lying on his side.

When he reads the text, he smiles.

**Lance:** hey ^-^ did you get home safe?

**Keith:** Yeah did you?

**Lance:** yup!

Outside his bedroom door, Keith can hear his father moving around the house, locking everything up and turning out the lights before heading upstairs.

**Lance:** anyway i just wanted to say goodnight and that i had a lot of fun spending time with you

The floorboards creak in the narrow hallway as Robert passes by Keith’s door. Keith closes his eyes and breathes in. _No future wife in the picture, indeed._ On reflex, Keith waits for the sound of his dad’s bedroom door clicking shut. It’s silly; his dad can’t see him in here, has no idea that Keith isn’t asleep. But he waits anyway, and as he stares at the blindingly bright screen in the darkness, thinking of a reply, it crosses his mind that things don’t have to be this way. That things could change, that Keith could tell his father, could tell everyone—

It feels like there’s something heavy sitting on his chest, like suddenly he doesn’t have enough room to breathe. His fingers clench around the phone, needing to grab onto something, needing to ground himself. The screen times out, and darkness drops over the room like a smoke bomb. Keith lies there, in fetal position.

_It’s just a thought._ A thought that he’s entertained, on and off, for years, but has never even come close to following through on. _Just a thought._ A thought that, alone in the darkness, paralyses him. To stay in the closet would mean to constantly be on his guard, would mean tiptoeing around his father for the rest of his life, would mean biting his tongue until it fell out. But to spill his guts would almost be worse, because Lord knows how Robert would react. It would be plunging into the unknown without any map. Coming out would be leaving a state of stasis, of safety, with no option to return.

The tightness in his chest gets hotter, and like pouring gasoline on a flame, it _whooshes_ up into white-hot indignance. Keith curls in further on himself, staying stock-still, wanting to punch something but not wanting to make a sound.

_I shouldn’t have to do this._

_I shouldn’t have to hide in case you won’t love me if I don’t._

He lies there, cradled in the darkness, for a few moments longer. Then he turns on his phone and sends a quick reply to Lance.

**Keith:** I had a lot of fun tonight too

**Keith:** Goodnight :-)

He shuts off the screen, and rolls onto his other side. He’s facing his bedroom door now, facing his father’s room that’s directly across the hall.

He pulls the blankets in close to his face, clutching them like a child, and whispers into the darkness, _“There is nothing wrong with me.”_ The words are full — full of anger, of dignity, of scraped-up courage, of truth.

Truths are loudest in the dark.

Keith sets his phone on his nightstand and waits for sleep to come.

 

* * *

 

The next day, at his parents’ house for dinner, Lance sits next to his mother. His father is on her other side, and his two older siblings, their spouses, and their kids are seated around the table.

“So?” she asks as she reaches across the table to pour water for Lance’s two-year-old nephew. “What was Keith like?”

“Who’s Keith?” blurts out Carmen, Lance’s niece.

“Yeah, Lance,” says his older sister Lorena, smiling at him teasingly. “Who’s Keith?”

“A guy,” says Lance, and takes a large bite of food.

“Shocker,” says Marco, his older brother.

“Is this the same Keith who has a ranch?” Lance’s father asks. “Your mother was telling me about him.”

“Yeah, that’s him.” Lance spears an empanada with his fork. “We went out last night. It’s not a big deal.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Carmen asks, and begins making kissy noises.

“No,” Lance says, laughing at Carmen’s antics. “No, he’s not.”

The conversation moves on. His father and Lorena start talking about Lorena’s new job at a law firm. Carmen jabbers excitedly to her uncle Marco about her science fair project. The tiny kids smear food all over their faces, and some of it even gets in their mouths.

Beside Lance, though, Sofia says, “You didn’t answer my question, mijo. What was he like?”

Lance thinks back to the night before, to shy glances and hand-holding and the light kiss on the cheek Keith gave him at the end of the night. “Not what I was expecting,” he says. “But really nice.”

Sofia smiles warmly. “Are you glad you went, then?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, and a feeling of warmth settles in his stomach. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments are lovely and never fail to make me smile; i'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter. 
> 
> big thanks to [TotallynotFanfics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallynotFanfics) for beta reading <3
> 
> until next time!


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